M  E  L  A  N I E . 


AND 


£Wjrr 


New  Work  by  the  same  Author. 
INKLINGS    OF    ADVENTURE. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF   "  PENCILLINGS   BY   THE   WAY." 
THIRD     EDITION. 

"  Delicious  sentiments,  embodied  in  a  sparkling  brilliancy  of 
style,  characterize  this  delightful  work.— JV*.  Y.  Transcript. 

"Mr.  Willis's  writings  are  amongst  the  most  interesting,  ex 
citing,  and  brilliant  of  modern  times." — London  New  Monthly 
Magazine. 


M  E  L  A  N  I  E 


BY    N.    P.    WILLIS 


"  Pray  pardon  me  ; 

For  I  am  like  a  boy  that  hath  found  money, 
Afraid  I  dream  still." 


NEW  YORK: 
SAUNDERS  AND  OTLEY,  ANN  STREET, 


MDCCCXXXYII. 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1837. 

B  Y    N.    P.    WILL  IS, 
in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


CRAIGHEAD    AND    ALLEN, 

PRINTERS, 
NO.   112  FULTON,   CORNER  OF  DUTCH   STREET. 


TO 

THE   REV.    LOUIS   D  WIGHT, 

£fus  Uolume 

IS     AFFECTIONATELY     INSCRIBED, 

BY  HIS  KINSMAN, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 


MELANIE        -  -       Page  1 

LORD  IVON  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER  •  23 

Birth-day  Verses        -  -      -  47 

Florence  Gray      -  -52 

To -  -      -  56 

To  "-""  "-  58 

The  Confessional       -  60 

Lines  on  leaving  Europe                           -  -            -  66 

The  Dying  Alchymist  -      -  71 
The  Leper 

Parrhasius       -  86 

The  Wife's  Appeal                                  ;  -  95 

The  Scholar  of  Thebet  Ben  Khorat  -      -  106 

Christ's  Entrance  into  Jerusalem             -  -            -  121 

The  Healing  of  the  Daughter  of  Jairus  -            -      -  125 

The  Soldier's  Widow       -  -  132 
Extract  from  a  Poem  delivered  at  the  Departure  of  the 

Senior  Class  of  Yale  College,  in  1826  -            -      -  135 

To  a  City  Pigeon  -  141 

To  Julia  Grisi  -      -  143 

The  Baptism  of  Christ     -  -  144 

On  a  Picture  of  a  beautiful  Boy         -  -  148 

On  the  Picture  of  a  Child  tired  of  Play    -  -  150 

To  a  face  beloved      -           -           -  -           -      -  153 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

Idleness                 ,  -  155 

The  Burial  of  Arnold  160 

Spring      -  -  163 

The  Torn  Hat  -      -  165 

April         -  -  168 

The  Belfry  Pigeon     -  -      -  171 

To  Laura  W -  174 

On  a  Picture  of  a  girl  leading  her  Blind  Mother  through 

the  wood  -      -  177 

To  a  Stolen  Ring  -  180 

To  my  Mother  from  the  Appenines  -      -  183 

To  Ermengarde  -  185 

The  Shunamite  188 

Absalom  -  194 

Hagar  in  the  Wilderness  -      -  200 

The  Widow  of  Nain        -.  207 

Dawn  -      -  212 

Saturday  Afternoon        -            -  -  214 

A  Child's  first  Impression  of  a  Star  -      -  216 

May        -  -  218 

On  witnessing  a  Baptism      -  -  220 

TheAnnoyer      -  -  222 

Roaring  Brook  -      -  225 

Lines  on  the  New  Year,  1825     -  -  228 

Lines  on  the  New  Year,  1826  -      -  229 

On  the  Death  of  a  young  girl      -  -  232 

Andre's  Request  to  Washington       -  -  234 

Sonnet—Winter  -            -  236 

Sonnet                       -                                    ...  237 

Sonnet     -  -  238 

The  Table  of  Emerald 239 


MELANIE. 


I. 

1  STOOD  on  yonder  rocky  brow,* 

And  marvell'd  at  the  Sybil's  fane, 
When  I  was  not  what  I  am  now. 

My  life  was  then  untouch'd  of  pain  ; 
And,  as  the  breeze  that  stirr'd  my  hair, 

My  spirit  freshened  in  the  sky, 
And  all  things  that  were  true  and  fair 

Lay  closely  to  my  loving  eye, 
With  nothing  shadowy  between — 
I  was  a  boy  of  seventeen. 
Yon  wondrous  temple  crests  the  rock, 

As  light  upon  its  giddy  base, 

*  The  story  is  told  during  a  walk  around  the  Cascatelles  of 
Tivoli. 

1 


M  E  L  A  N  I  E  . 

As  stirless  with  the  torrent's  shock, 
As  pure  in  its  proportioned  grace, 

And  seems  a  thing  of  air,  as  then, 

Afloat  above  this  fairy  glen  ; 

But  though  mine  eye  will  kindle  still 

In  looking  on  the  shapes  of  art, 
The  link  is  lost  that  sent  the  thrill, 

Like  lightning,  instant  to  my  heart. 

And  thus  may  break  before  we  die, 

Th'  electric  chain  'twixt  soul  and  eye ! 

Ten  years — -like  yon  bright  valley,  sown 

Alternately  with  weeds  and  flowers — 
Had  swiftly,  if  not  gaily,  flown, 

And  still  I  lov'd  the  rosy  Hours  ; 
And  if  there  lurk'd  within  my  breast 

Some  nerve  that  had  been  overstrung 
And  quiver'd  in  my  hours  of  rest, 

Like  bells  by  their  own  echo  rung, 
I  was  with  Hope  a  masquer  yet, 

And  well  could  hide  the  look  of  sadness 
And,  if  my  heart  would  not  forget, 

I  knew,  at  least,  the  trick  of  gladness, 


M  E  L ANIE.  3 

And  when  another  sang  the  strain, 
I  mingled  in  the  old  refrain. 

'Twere  idle  to  remember  now, 

Had  I  the  heart,  my  thwarted  schemes. 
I  bear  beneath  this  alter'd  brow 

The  ashes  of  a  thousand  dreams — 
Some  wrought  of  wild  Ambition's  fingers, 

Some  colored  of  Love's  pencil  well — 
But  none  of  which  a  shadow  lingers, 

And  none  whose  story  I  could  tell. 
Enough,  that  when  I  climbed  again 

To  Tivoli's  romantic  steep, 
Life  had  no  joy,  and  scarce  a  pain, 

Whose  wells  I  had  not  tasted  deep  ; 
And  from  my  lips  the  thirst  had  pass'd 
For  every  fount  save  one — the  sweetest — and  the  last. 
The  last — the  last !  My  friends  were  dead, 

Or  false  ;  my  mother  in  her  grave  ; 
Above  my  father's  honor'd  head 

The  sea  had  lock'd  its  hiding  wave  ; 
Ambition  had  but  foil'd  my  grasp, 
And  love  had  perish'd  in  my  clasp ; 


M  E  L  A  N  I  E  . 

And  still,  I  say,  I  did  not  slack 
My  love  of  life,  and  hope  of  pleasure, 

But  gather'd  my  affections  back ; 
And,  as  the  miser  hugs  his  treasure 

When  plague  and  ruin  bid  him  flee, 
I  closer  clung  to  mine — my  lov'd,  lost  Melanie ! 

The  last  of  the  De  Brevern  race, 

My  sister  claimed  no  kinsman's  care ; 
And,  looking  from  each  other's  face, 

The  eye  stole  upward  unaware — 
For  there  was  nought  whereon  to  lean 
Each  other's  heart  and  heaven  between — 

Yet  that  was  world  enough  for  me, 
And,  for  a  brief  but  blessed  while, 

There  seemed  no  care  for  Melanie 
If  she  could  see  her  brother  smile  ; 

But  life  with  her  was  at  the  flow, 
And  every  wave  went  sparkling  higher, 

While  mine  was  ebbing,  fast  and  low, 
From  the  same  shore  of  vain  desire, 

And  knew  I,  with  prophetic  heart, 
That  we  were  wearing  aye  insensibly  apart. 


M  E  L ANI E  . 
II. 

We  came  to  Italy.     I  felt 

A  yearning  for  its  sunny  sky ; 
My  very  spirit  seem'd  to  melt 

As  swept  its  first  warm  breezes  by. 
From  lip  and  cheek  a  chilling  mist, 

From  life  and  soul  a  frozen  rime, 
By  every  breath  seem'd  softly  kiss'd — 

God's  blessing  on  its  radiant  clime  ! 
It  was  an  endless  joy  to  me 

To  see  my  sister's  new  delight ; 
From  Venice  in  its  golden  sea 

To  Pcestum  in  its  purple  light, 
By  sweet  Val  d'Arno's  tinted  hills, 

In  Vallombrosa's  convent  gloom, 
Mid  Term's  vale  of  singing  rills, 

By  deathless  lairs  in  solemn  Rome, 
In  gay  Palermo's  "  Golden  Shell," 
At  Arethusa's  hidden  well — 

We  loiter'd  like  th'  impassion'd  sun 
That  slept  so  lovingly  on  all, 

And  made  a  home  of  every  one — 
1* 


0  MELANIE. 

Ruin,  and  fane,  and  waterfall — 

And  crown'd  the  dying  day  with  glory 
If  we  had  seen,  since  morn,  but  one  old  haunt  of  story. 

We  came  with  Spring  to  Tivoli. 

My  sister  lov'd  its  laughing  air 
And  merry  waters,  though,  for  me, 
My  heart  was  in  another  key, 

And  sometimes  I  could  scarcely  bear 
The  mirth  of  their  eternal  play, 

And,  like  a  child  that  longs  for  home 
When  weary  of  its  holiday, 

I  sighed  for  melancholy  Rome. 
Perhaps — the  fancy  haunts  me  still — 
'Twas  but  a  boding  sense  of  ill. 

It  was  a  morn,  of  such  a  day 

As  might  have  dawn'd  on  Eden  first, 

Early  in  the  Italian  May. 

Vine-leaf  and  flower  had  newly  burst, 

And  on  the  burthen  of  the  air 

The  breath  of  buds  came  faint  and  rare ; 
And  far  in  the  transparent  sky 


M  E  L  A  N  I  E  . 

The  small,  earth-keeping  birds  were  seen 

Soaring  deliriously  high  ; 
And  through  the  clefts  of  newer  green 

Yon  waters  dash'd  their  living  pearls  ; 
And  with  a  gayer  smile  and  bow 

Troop'd  on  the  merry  village  girls ; 
And  from  the  Contadino's  brow 

The  low-slouch'd  hat  was  backward  thrown, 

With  air  that  scarcely  seem'd  his  own ; 
And  Melanie,  with  lips  apart, 

And  clasped  hands  upon  my  arm, 
Flung  open  her  impassion'd  heart, 

And  bless'd  life's  mere  and  breathing  charm, 
And  sang  old  songs,  and  gather'd  flowers, 
And  passionately  bless'd  once  more  life's 
thrilling  hours. 

In  happiness  and  idleness 

We  wandered  down  yon  sunny  vale — 
Oh  mocking  eyes  ! — a  golden  tress 

Floats  back  upon  this  summer  gale  ! 
A  foot  is  tripping  on  the  grass  ! 

A  laugh  rings  merry  in  mine  ear  ! 


M  E  L  A  N  I  £  . 

I  see  a  bounding  shadow  pass  !-— 

O  God  !   my  sister  once  was  here  ! 
Come  with  me,  friend  ! — We  rested  yon ! 

There  grew  a  flower  she  pluck'd  and  wore ! 
She  sat  upon  this  mossy  stone  ! — 

That  broken  fountain  running  o'er 
With  the  same  ring,  like  silver  bells. 

She  listen'd  to  its  babbling  flow, 
And  said,  "  Perhaps  the  gossip  tells 

Some  fountain-nymph's  love-story  now  !" 
And  as  her  laugh  rang  clear  and  wild, 
A  youth — a  painter — passed  and  smiled. 

He  gave  the  greeting  of  the  morn 

With  voice  that  lingered  in  mine  ear. 
I  knew  him  sad  and  gentle  born 

By  those  two  words  so  calm  and  clear. 
His  frame  was  slight,  his  forehead  high 

And  swept  by  threads  of  raven  hair, 
The  fire  of  thought  was  in  his  eye, 

And  he  was  pale  and  marble  fair, 
And  Grecian  chisel  never  caught 
The  soul  in  those  slight  features  wrought. 


M  E  L  A  N  I  E  . 

I  watch'd  his  graceful  step  of  pride, 
Till  hidden  by  yon  leaning  tree, 

And  lov'd  him  ere  the  echo  died ; 
And  so,  alas  !  did  Melanie  ! 

We  sat  and  watch'd  the  fount  awhile 

In  silence,  but  our  thoughts  were  one ; 
And  then  arose,  and  with  a  smile 

Of  sympathy,  we  saunter'd  on ; 
And  she  by  sudden  fits  was  gay, 
And  then  her  laughter  died  away, 

And  in  this  changefulness  of  mood, 
Forgotten  now  those  May-day  spells, 

We  turn'd  where  Varro's  villa  stood 
And  gazing  on  the  Cascatelles, 

(W  hose  hurrying  waters  wild  and  white 

Seem  madden'd  as  they  burst  to  light,) 
I  chanced  to  turn  my  eyes  away, 

And  lo  !  upon  a  bank  alone, 
The  youthful  painter,  sleeping,  lay  ! 

His  pencils  on  the  grass  were  thrown, 
And  by  his  side  a  sketch  was  flung, 

And  near  him  as  I  lightly  crept, 


10  M  E  L  A  N  I  E  . 

To  see  the  picture  as  he  slept, 

Upon  his  feet  he  lightly  sprung ; 
And  gazing  with  a  wild  surprise 

Upon  the  face  of  Melanie, 

He  said — and  dropp'd  his  earnest  ey 
"  Forgive  me  !  but  I  dream'd  of  thee  !" 
His  sketch,  the  while,  was  in  my  hand, 

And,  for  the  lines  I  look'd  to  trace — 
A  torrent  by  a  palace  spann'd, 
Half-classic  and  half  fairy-land — 

I  only  found — my  sister's  face  ! 

III. 

Our  life  was  changed.     Another  love 

In  its  lone  woof  began  to  twine  ; 
But  ah  !  the  golden  thread  was  wove 

Between  my  sister's  heart  and  mine ! 
She  who  had  liv'd  for  me  before — 

She  who  had  smiled  for  me  alone — 
Would  live  and  smile  for  me  no  more ! 

The  echo  to  my  heart  was  gone  ! 
It  seemed  to  me  the  very  skies 
Had  shone  through  those  averted  eyes ; 


MELA  NIE. 

The  air  had  breath'd  of  balm — the  flower 
Of  radiant  beauty  seemed  to  be — 

But  as  she  lov'd  them,  hour  by  hour, 
And  murmur1  d  of  that  love  to  me  ! 
Oh,  though  it  be  so  heavenly  high 

The  selfishness  of  earth  above, 
That,  of  the  watchers  in  the  sky, 

He  sleeps  who  guards  a  brother's  love — 
Though  to  a  sister's  present  weal 

The  deep  devotion  far  transcends 
The  utmost  that  the  soul  can  feel 

For  even  its  own  higher  ends — 
Though  next  to  God,  and  more  than  heaven 
For  his  own  sake,  he  loves  her,  even — 

'Tis  difficult  to  see  another, 
A  passing  stranger  of  a  day 

Who  never  hath  been  friend  or  brother, 
Pluck  with  a  look  her  heart  away — 

To  see  the  fair,  unsullied  brow, 
Ne'er  kiss'd  before  without  a  prayer, 

Upon  a  stranger's  bosom  now, 
Who  for  the  boon  took  little  care — 

Who  is  enrich'd,  he  knows  not  why — 


11 


12  M  E  L  ANIE  . 

Who  suddenly  hath  found  a  treasure 

Golconda  were  too  poor  to  buy, 
And  he,  perhaps,  too  cold  to  measure — 
(Albeit,  in  her  forgetful  dream, 
Th'  unconscious  idol  happier  seem,) 

'Tis  difficult  at  once  to  crush 
The  rebel  mourner  in  the  breast, 

To  press  the  heart  to  earth  and  hush 
Its  bitter  jealousy  to  rest — 

And  difficult — the  eye  gets  dim, 

The  lip  wants  power — to  smile  on  him  ! 


I  thank  sweet  Mary  Mother  now, 

Who  gave  me  strength  those  pangs  to  hide, 
And  touch'd  mine  eyes  and  lit  my  brow 

With  sunshine  that  my  heart  belied. 
I  never  spoke  of  wealth  or  race 

To  one  who  ask'd  so  much  from  me — 
I  looked  but  in  my  sister's  face, 

And  raus'd  if  she  would  happier  be  J 
And  hour  by  hour,  and  day  by  day, 

I  lov'd  the  gentle  painter  more, 

And  in  the  same  soft  measure  wore 


MELANIE.  13 

My  selfish  jealousy  away  ; 

And  I  began  to  watch  his  mood, 
And  feel  with  her  love's  trembling  care, 

And  bade  God  bless  him  as  he  woo'd 
That  loving  girl  so  fond  and  fair, 

And  on  my  mind  would  sometimes  press 

A  fear  that  she  might  love  him  less. 

But  Melanie — I  little  dream'd 

What  spells  the  stirring  heart  may  move — 

Pygmalion's  statue  never  seem'd 

More  changed  with  life,  than  she  with  love. 

The  pearl  tint  of  the  early  dawn 
Flush'd  into  day-spring's  rosy  hue — 

The  meek,  moss-folded  bud  of  morn 
Flung  open  to  the  light  and  dew — 

The  first  and  half-seen  star  of  even 

Wax'd  clear  amid  the  deepening  heaven- 
Similitudes  perchance  may  be, 

But  these  are  changes  oftener  seen, 
And  do  not  image  half  to  me 

My  sister's  change  efface  and  mien. 
2 


14  MELANIE. 

'Twas  written  in  her  very  air 

That  Love  had  passed  and  enter'd  there, 

IV. 

A  calm  and  lovely  paradise 

Is  Italy,  for  minds  at  ease. 
The  sadness  of  its  sunny  skies 

Weighs  not  upon  the  lives  of  these. 
The  ruin'd  aisle,  the  crumbling  fane, 

The  broken  column,  vast  and  prone, 
It  may  be  joy — it  may  be  pain — 

Amid  such  wrecks  to  walk  alone ! 
The  saddest  man  will  sadder  be, 

The  gentlest  lover  gentler  there, 
As  if,  whate'er  the  spirit's  key, 

It  strengthened  in  that  solemn  air. 

The  heart  soon  grows  to  mournful  things, 

And  Italy  has  not  a  breeze 
But  comes  on  melancholy  wings ; 

And  even  her  majestic  trees 
Stand  ghost-like  in  the  Caesar's  home, 

As  if  their  conscious  roots  were  set 


MELANIE.  15 

In  the  old  graves  of  giant  Rome, 
And  drew  their  sap  all  kingly  yet ! 

And  every  stone  your  feet  beneath 
Is  broken  from  some  mighty  thought, 

And  sculptures  in  the  dust  still  breathe 

The  fire  with  which  their  lines  were  wrought, 

And  sunder'd  arch,  and  plunder'd  tomb 

Still  thunder  back  the  echo,  "Rome!" 

Yet  gaily  o'er  Egeria's  fount 

The  ivy  flings  its  emerald  veil, 
And  flowers  grow  fair  on  Numa's  mount, 

And  light-sprung  arches  span  the  dale, 
And  soft,  from  Caracalla's  Baths, 

The  herdsman's  song  comes  down  the  breeze 
While  climb  his  goats  the  giddy  paths 

To  grass-grown  architrave  and  frieze  ; 
And  gracefully  Albano's  hill 

Curves  into  the  horizon's  line, 
And  sweetly  sings  that  classic  rill, 

And  fairly  stands  that  nameless  shrine, 
And  here,  oh,  many  a  sultry  noon 
And  starry  eve,  that  happy  June, 


16  MELANIE. 

Came  Angelo  and  Melanie, 
And  earth  for  us  was  all  in  tune — 
For  while  Love  talk'd  with  them,  Hope  walked  apart 
with  me  ! 

V. 

I  shrink  from  the  embittered  close 

Of  my  own  melancholy  tale. 
'Tis  long  since  I  have  waked  my  woes — 

And  nerve  and  voice  together  fail ! 
The  throb  beats  faster  at  my  brow, 

My  brain  feels  warm  with  starting  tears, 
And  I  shall  weep — but  heed  not  thou  ! 

'Twill  soothe  awhile  the  ache  of  years. 
The  heart  transfix'd — worn  out  with  grief — 
Will  turn  the  arrow  for  relief. 
The  painter  was  a  child  of  shame  I 

It  stirr'd  my  pride  to  know  it  first, 
For  I  had  question'd  but  his  name, 

And  thought,  alas  !  I  knew  the  worst, 
Believing  him  unknown  and  poor. 
His  blood,  indeed,  was  not  obscure  ; 

A  high-born  Conti  was  his  mother, 


MELANIE.  17 

But,  though  he  knew  one  parent's  face, 

He  never  had  beheld  the  other, 
Nor  knew  his  country  or  his  race. 

The  Roman  hid  his  daughter's  shame 
Within  St.  Mona's  convent  wall, 

And  gave  the  boy  a  painter's  name — 
And  little  else  to  live  withal  ! 

And,  with  a  noble's  high  desires 
For  ever  mounting  in  his  heart, 

The  boy  consum'd  with  hidden  fires, 
But  wrought  in  silence  at  his  art ; 

And  sometimes  at  St.  Mona's  shrine, 
Worn  thin  with  penance  harsh  and  long, 

He  saw  his  mother's  form  divine, 
And  lov'd  her  for  their  mutual  wrong. 
I  said  my  pride  was  stirr'd — but  no  ! 

The  voice  that  told  its  bitter  tale 
Was  touch'd  so  mournfully  with  wo, 

And,  as  he  ceas'd,  all  deathly  pale, 
He  loos'd  the  hand  of  Melanie, 
And  gaz'd  so  gaspingly  on  me — 

The  demon  in  my  bosom  died] 

Q* 


18  MELANIE. 

"  Not  thine,"  I  said,  u  another's  guilt ; 

I  break  no  hearts  for  silly  pride  ; 
So,  kiss  yon  weeper  if  thou  wilt  I" 

VI. 

St.  Mona's  morning  mass  was  done. 

The  shrine-lamps  struggled  with  the  day  ; 
And  rising  slowly,  one  by  one, 

Stole  the  last  worshippers  away. 
The  organist  played  out  the  hymn, 

The  incense,  to  St.  Mary  swung, 
Had  mounted  to  the  cherubim, 

Or  to  the  pillars  thinly  clung ; 
And  boyish  chorister  replaced 

The  missal  that  was  read  no  more, 
And  clos'd,  with  half  irreverent  haste, 

Confessional  and  chancel  door; 
And  as,  through  aisle  and  oriel  pane, 

The  sun  wore  round  his  slanting  beam, 
The  dying  martyr  stirr'd  again, 

And  warriors  battled  in  its  gleam  ; 
And  costly  tomb  and  sculptur'd  knight 
Show'd  warm  and  wondrous  in  the  light. 


M  E  L  ANI  E  .  19 

I  have  not  said  that  Melanie 

Was  radiantly  fair — 
This  earth  again  may  never  see 

A  loveliness  so  rare ! 
She  glided  up  St.  Mona's  aisle 
That  morning  as  a  bride, 
And,  full  as  was  my  heart  the  while, 

I  bless'd  her  in  my  pride  ! 
The  fountain  may  not  fail  the  less 

Whose  sands  are  golden  ore, 
And  a  sister  for  her  loveliness, 
May  not  be  lov'd  the  more  ; 
But  as,  the  fount's  full  heart  beneath, 

Those  golden  sparkles  shine, 
My  sister's  beauty  seem'd  to  breathe 
Its  brightness  over  mine  ! 

St.  Mona  has  a  chapel  dim 

Within  the  altar's  fretted  pale, 
Where  faintly  comes  the  swelling  hymn, 

And  dies,  half  lost,  the  anthem's  waiL 
And  here,  in  twilight  meet  for  prayer, 

A  single  lamp  hangs  o'er  the  shrine, 


20  MELANIE. 

And  Raphael's  Mary,  soft  and  fair, 

Looks  down  with  sweetness  half  divine, 
And  here  St.  Mona's  nuns  alway 
Through  lattic'd  bars  are  seen  to  pray. 

Ave  and  sacrament  were  o'er, 

And  Angelo  and  Melanie 
Still  knelt  the  holy  shrine  before  ; 

But  prayer,  that  morn  was  not  for  me  ! 
My  heart  was  lock'd  !     The  lip  might  stir, 

The  frame  might  agonize — and  yet, 
Oh  God !   I  could  not  pray  for  her  ! 

A  seal  upon  my  soul  was  set — 
My  brow  was  hot — my  brain  opprest — 
And  fiends  seem'd  muttering  round,  "  Your  bridal  is 
unblest !" 

With  forehead  to  the  lattice  laid, 

And  thin,  white  ringers  straining  through, 

A  nun  the  while  had  softly  pray'd. 

Oh,  ev'n  in  prayer  that  voice  I  knew ! 

Each  faltering  word — each  mournful  tone — 
Each  pleading  cadence,  half-suppress'd — 


MELA.NIE.  21 

Such  music  had  its  like  alone 

On  lips  that  stole  it  at  her  breast ! 
And  ere  the  orison  was  done 
I  lov'd  the  mother  as  the  son  ! 

And  now,  the  marriage  vows  to  hear, 

The  nun  unveil'd  her  brow — 
When,  sudden,  to  my  startled  ear, 
There  crept  a  whisper,  hoarse  like  fear, 

"  De  Brevern  !  is  it  Ihou  /" 
The  priest  let  fall  the  golden  ring, 

The  bridegroom  stood  aghast, 
While,  like  some  weird  and  frantic  thing, 

The  nun  was  muttering  fast ; 
And  as,  in  dread,  I  nearer  drew, 
She  thrust  her  arms  the  lattice  through, 
And  held  me  to  her  straining  view — 

But  suddenly  begun 
To  steal  upon  her  brain  a  light 
That  stagger'd  soul,  and  sense,  and  sight, 
And,  with  a  mouth  all  ashy  white, 

She  shriek'd,  "  It  is  his  son ! 
The  bridegroom  is  thy  bloud — thy  brother  ! 


22 


M  E  L  AN  I  E . 


Rodolph  de  Brevern  wronged  his  mother  /" 

And,  as  that  doom  of  love  was  heard, 
My  sister  sunk — and  died — without  a  sign  or  word  ! 

*  *  * 

I  shed  no  tear  for  her.     She  died 

With  her  last  sunshine  in  her  eyes. 
Earth  held  for  her  no  joy  beside 

The  hope  just  shatter'd — and  she  lies 
In  a  green  nook  of  yonder  dell ; 

And  near  her,  in  a  newer  bed, 
Her  lover — brother — sleeps  as  well! 

Peace  to  the  broken-hearted  dead ! 


23 


LORD  IVON  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER. 


"  Dost  thou  despise 

A  love  like  this  !    A  lady  should  not  scorn 
One  soul  that  loves  her,howe'er  lowly  it  be." 

BARRY  CORNWALL. 


LORD    IVON. 

How  beautiful  it  is  !     Come  here,  my  daughter! 
Is't  not  a  face  of  most  bewildering  brightness  ? 

ISIDORE. 

The  features  are  all  fair,  sir,  but  so  cold — 
I  could  not  love  such  beauty ! 


24  LORDIVON. 

LORD    1VON. 

Yet,  ev'n  so 

Look'd  thy  lost  mother,  Isidore  !     Her  brow 
Lofty  like  this — her  lips  thus  delicate, 
Yet  icy  cold  in  their  slight  vermeil  threads — 
Her  neck  thus  queenly,  and  the  sweeping  curve 
Thus  matchless,  from  the  small  and  "  pearl 

round  ear" 

To  the  o'er-polished  shoulder.     Never  swan 
Dreamed  on  the  water  with  a  grace  so  calm ! 

ISIDORE. 
And  was  she  proud,  sir? 

LORD    IVON. 

Or  I  had  not  loved  her. 

ISIDORE. 

Then  runs  my  lesson  wrong.     I  ever  read 
Pride  was  unlovely. 

LORD    IVON. 

Dost  thou  prate  already 
Of  books,  my  little  one  ?     Nay,  then,  'tis  time 


AND     HIS     DAUGHTER.  2-5 

That  a  sad  tale  were  told  thee.     Is  thy  bird 
Fed  for  the  day  ?     Canst  thou  forget  the  rein 
Of  thy  beloved  Arabian  for  an  hour, 
And,  the  first  time  in  all  thy  sunny  life, 
Take  sadness  to  thy  heart?     Wilt  listen,  sweet? 

ISIDORE. 

Hang  I  not  ever  on  thy  lips,  dear  father? 

LORD    IVON. 

As  thou  didst  enter,  I  was  musing  here 
Upon  this  picture.     'Tis  the  face  of  one 
I  never  knew ;  but,  for  its  glorious  pride, 
I  bought  it  of  the  painter.     There  has  hung 
Ever  the  cunning  curse  upon  my  soul 
To  love-this  look  in  woman.     Not  the  flower 
Of  all  Arcadia,  in  the  Age  of  Gold, 
Looked  she  a  shepherdess,  would  be  to  me 
More  than  the  birds  are.     As  th'  astrologer 
Worships  the  half-seen  star  that  in  its  sphere 
Dreams  not  of  him,  and  tramples  on  the  lily 
That  flings,  unask'd,  its  fragrance  in  his  way, 
3 


26  LORDIVON 

Yet  both  (as  are  the  high-born  and  the  low) 
Wrought  of  the  same  fine  Hand — so,  daringly, 
Flew  ray  boy-hopes  beyond  me.     You  are  here 
In  a  brave  palace,  Isidore  !    The  gem 
That  sparkles  in  your  hair  imprisons  light 
Drunk  in  the  flaming  Orient ;  and  gold 
Waits  on  the  bidding  of  those  girlish  lips 
In  measure  that  Aladdin  never  knew 
Yet  was  I — lowly  born ! 

ISIDORE. 

Lord  Ivon ! 

LORD    IVON. 

Ay, 

You  wonder ;  but  I  tell  you  that  the  Lord 
Of  this  tall  palace  was  a  peasant's  child! 
And,  looking  sometimes  on  his  fair  domain, 
Thy  sire  bethinks  him  of  a  siokly  boy, 
Nursed  by  his  mother  on  a  mountain  side, 
His  only  wealth  a  book  of  poetry, 
With  which  he  daily  crept  into  the  sun, 
To  cheat  sharp  pains  with  the  bewildering  dream 
Of  beauiy  he  had  only  read  of  there. 


AND      HIS     DAUGHTER. 
ISIDORE. 

Have  you  the  volume  still,  sir  1 

LORD    IVON. 

'Twas  the  gift 

Of  a  poor  scholar  wandering  in  the  hills, 
Who  pitied  my  sick  idleness.     I  fed 
My  inmost  soul  upon  the  witching  rhyme — 
A  silly  tale  of  a  low  minstrel  boy, 
Who  broke  his  heart  in  singing  at  a  bridal 

ISIDORE. 
Loved  he  the  lady,  sir? 

LORD    IVOX. 

So  ran  the  tale. 
How  well  I  do  remember  it! 


27 


Poor  youth ! 


ISIDOR^E. 

Alas ! 


LORD    IVON. 

I  never  thought  to  pity  him. 


28  LORDIVON 

The  bride  was  a  duke's  sister ;  and  I  mused 
Upon  the  wonder  of  his  daring  love, 
Till  my  heart  changed  within  me.    I  became 
Restless  and  sad  ;  and  in  my  sleep  I  saw 
Beautiful  dames  all  scornfully  go  by ; 
And  one  o'er-weary  morn  I  crept  away 
Into  the  glen,  and,  flung  upon  a  rock, 
Over  a  torrent  whose  swift,  giddy  waters 
Fill'd  me  with  energy,  I  swore  my  soul 
To  better  that  false  vision,  if  there  were 
Manhood  or  fire  within  my  wretched  frame. 
I  turn'd  me  homeward  with  the  sunset  hour, 
Changed — for  the  thought  had  conquer'd   ev'n 

disease  ; 

And  my  poor  mother  check'd  her  busy  wheel, 
To  wonder  at  the  step  with  which  I  came. 

Oh,  heavens !   that  soft  and  dewy  April  eve, 
When,  in  a  minstrel's  garb,  but  with  a  heart 
As  lofty  as  the  marble  shafts  upreared 
Beneath  the  stately  portico,  I  stood 
At  this  same  palace  door  ! 


AND     HIS     DAUGHTER.  29 

ISIDORE. 

Our  own  !  and  you 
A  minstrel  boy ! 

LORD  IVON. 

Yes — I  had  wandered  far 
Since  I  shook  of  my  sickness  in  the  hills, 
And,  with  some  cunning  on  the  lute,  had  learn'd 
A  subtler  lesson  than  humility 
In  the  quick  school  of  want.     A  menial  stood 
By  the  Egyptian  sphinx ;  and  when  I  came 
And  pray'd  to  sing  beneath  the  balcony 
A  song  of  love  for  a  fair  lady's  ear, 
He  insolently  bade  me  to  begone. 
Listening  not,  I  swept  my  fingers  o'er 
The  strings  in  prelude,  when  the  base-born  slave 
Struck  me! 

ISIDORE. 
Impossible ! 

LORD    IVON. 

I  dash'd  my  lute 


30  LORD1VON 

Into  his  face,  and  o'er  the  threshold  flew  ; 
And,  threading  rapidly  the  lofty  rooms, 
Sought  vainly  for  his  master.     Suddenly 
A  wing  rushed  o'er  me,  and  a  radiant  girl, 
Young  as  myself,  but  fairer  than  the  dream 
Of  my  most  wild  imagining,  sprang  forth, 
Chasing  a  dove,  that,  'wilder'd  with  pursuit, 
Dropt  breathless  on  my  bosom. 
ISIDORE. 

Nay,  dear  father ! 
Was't  so  indeed  ? 

LORD  IVON. 

I  thank'd  my  blessed  star  ! 
And,  as  the  fair,  transcendent  creature  stood 
Silent  with  wonder,  I  resign'd  the  bird 
To  her  white  hands  :  and,  with  a  rapid  thought, 
And  lips  already  eloquent  of  love, 
Turn'd  the  strange  chance  to  a  similitude 
*       Of  my  own  story.     Her  slight,  haughty  lip 
Curl'd  at  the  warm  recital  of  my  wrong, 
And  on  the  ivory  oval  of  her  cheek 
The  rose  flush'd  outward  with  a  deeper  red  ; 


AND      HIS     DAUGHTER.  31 

And  from  that  hour  the  minstrel  was  at  home, 
And  horse  and  hound  were  his,  and  none  might 

cross 

The  minion  of  the  noble  Lady  Clare. 
Art  weary  of  my  tale  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Dear  father ! 

LORD  IVON. 

Well ! 

A  summer,  and  a  winter,  and  a  spring, 
Went  over  me  like  brief  and  noteless  hours. 
Forever  at  the  side  of  one  who  grew 
With  every  morn  more  beautiful ;  the  slave, 
Willing  and  quick,  of  every  idle  whim ; 
Singing  for  no  one's  bidding  but  her  own, 
And  then  a  song  from  my  own  passionate  heart, 
Sung  with  a  lip  of  fire,  but  ever  named 
As  an  old  rhyme  that  I  had  chanced  to  hear ; 
Riding  beside  her,  sleeping  at  her  door, 
Doing  her  maddest  bidding  at  the  risk 
Of  life — what  marvel  if  at  last  I  grew 
Presumptuous  ] 


32  LORDIVON 

A  messenger  one  morn 

Spurr'd  through  the  gate — "  A  revel  at  the  court! 
And  many  minstrels,  come  from  many  lands, 
Will  try  their  harps  in  presence  of  the  king; 
And  'tis  the  royal  pleasure  that  my  lord 
Come  with  the  young  and  lovely  Lady  Clare, 
Rob'd  as  the  queen  of  Faery,  who  shall  crown 
The  victor  with  his  bays." 

Pass  over  all 

To  that  bewildering  day.     She  sat  enthroned 
Amid  the  court ;  and  never  twilight  star 
Sprang  with  such  sweet  surprise  upon  the  eye 
As  she  with  her  rare  beauty  on  the  gaze 
Of  the  gay  multitude.     The  minstrels  changed 
Their  studied  songs,  and  chose  her  for  a  theme; 
And  ever  at  the  pause  all  eyes  upturn'd 
And  fed  upon  her  loveliness. 

The  last 

Long  lay  was  ended,  and  the  silent  crowd 
Waited  the  king's  award — when  suddenly 
The  sharp  strings  of  a  lyre  were  swept  without, 


AND     HIS     DAUGHTER.  33 

And  a  clear  voice  claim'd  hearing  for  a  bard 

Belated  on  his  journey.     Mask'd,  and  clad 

In  a  long  stole,  the  herald  led  me  in, 

A  thousand  eyes  were  on  me :  but  I  saw 

The  new-throned  queen,  in  her  high  place,  alone ; 

And,  kneeling  at  her  feet,  I  pressed  my  brow 

Upon  her  footstool,  till  the  images 

Of  my  past  hours  rush'd  thick  upon  my  brain  ; 

Then,  rising  hastily,  I  struck  my  lyre  ; 

And,  in  a  story  woven  of  my  own, 

I  so  did  paint  her  in  her  loveliness — 

Pouring  my  heart  all  out  upon  the  lines 

I  knew  too  faithfully,  and  lavishing 

The  hoarded  fire  of  a  whole  age  of  love 

Upon  each  passionate  word,  that,  as  I  sunk 

Exhausted  at  the  close,  the  ravish'd  crowd 

Flung  gold  and  flowers  on  my  still  quivering 

lyre  ; 

And  the  moved  monarch  in  his  gladness  swore 
There  was  no  boon  beneath  his  kingly  crown 
Too  high  for  such  a  minstrel ! 

Did  my  star 


34  LORDIVON 

Speak  in  my  fainting  ear  ?     Heard  I  the  king  ? 

Or  did  the  audible  pulses  of  my  heart 

Seem  to  me  so  articulate  ?     I  rose, 

And  tore  my  mask  away;  and,  as  the  stole 

Dropped  from  my  shoulders,  I  glanced  hurriedly 

A  look  upon  the  face  of  Lady  Clare. 

It  was  enough !      I  saw  that  she  was  changed — 

That  a  brief  hour  had  chilled  the  open  child 

To  calculating  woman — that  she  read 

With  jeold  displeasure  my  o'er-daring  thought ; 

And  on  that  brow,  to  me  as  legible 

As  stars  to  the  rapt  Arab,  I  could  trace 

The  scorn  that  waited  on  me  !      Sick  of  life, 

Yet,  even  then,  with  a  half-rallied  hope 

Prompting  my  faltering  tongue,  I  blindly  knelt, 

And  claimed  the  king's  fair  promise — 

ISIDORE. 

For  the  hand 
Of  Lady  Clare  ? 

LORD    IVON. 

No,  sweet  one — for  a  sword. 


AND      HIS     DAUGHTER. 
ISIDORE. 

You  surely  spoke  to  her  1 

LORD    IVON. 

I  saw  her  face 

No  more  for  years.     I  went  unto  the  wars ; 
And  when  again  I  sought  that  palace  door, 
A  glory  heralded  the  minstrel  boy 
That  monarchs  might  have  envied. 

ISIDORE. 

Was  she  there  1 

LORD    IVON. 

Yes — and,  O  God  !   how  beautiful !     The  last, 
The  ripest  seal  of  loveliness,  was  set 
Upon  her  form  ;  and  the  all-glorious  pride 
That  I  had  worshipped  on  her  girlish  lip, 
When  her  scared  dove  fled  to  me,  was  matured 
Into  a  queenly  grace  ;  and  nobleness 
Was  bound  like  a  tiara  to  her  brow, 
And  every  motion  breathed  of  it.     There  lived 
Nothing  on  earth  so  ravishingly  fair. 


36  LORD     IVON 

ISIDORE. 

And  you  still  lov'd  her  ? 

LORD    IVON. 

I  had  peril'd  life 

In  every  shape — had  battled  on  the  sea, 
And  burnt  upon  the  desert,  and  outgone 
Spirits  most  mad  for  glory,  with  this  one 
O'ermastering  hope  upon  me.     Honor,  fame, 
Gold,  even,  were  as  dust  beneath  my  feet ; 
And  war  was  my  disgust,  though  I  had  sought 
Its  horrors  like  a  bloodhound — for  her  praise. 
My  life  was  drunk  up  with  the  love  of  her. 

ISIDORE. 
And  now  she  scorn'd  you  not? 

LORD    IVON. 

Worse,  Isidore! 

She  pitied  me !     I  did  not  need  a  voice 
To  tell  my  love.     She  knew  her  sometime 

minion — 
And  felt  that  she  should  never  be  adored 


AND     HIS     DAUGHTER. 

With  such  idolatry  as  his,  and  sighed 
That  hearts  so  true  beat  not  in  palaces — 
But  I  was  poor,  with  all  my  bright  renown, 
And  lowly  born  ;  and  she — the  Lady  Clare ! 

ISIDORE. 
She  could  not  tell  you  this  ? 

LORD    IVON. 

She  broke  my  heart 

As  kindly  as  the  fisher  hooks  the  worm — 
Pitying  me  the  while  ! 

ISIDORE. 

And  you — 

LORD    IVON. 

Lived  on ! 

But  the  remembrance  irks  me,  and  my  throat 
Chokes  with  the  utterance ! 

ISIDORE. 

Dear  father ! 


37 


38  LORD     IVON 

LORD    IVON. 

Nay- 
Thanks  to  sweet  Mary  Mother,  it  is  past: 
And  in  this  world  I  shall  have  no  more  need 
To  speak  of  it. 

ISIDORE. 

But  there  were  brighter  days 
In  store.     My  mother  and  this  palace — 

LORD    IVON. 

You  outrun 

My  tale,  dear  Isidore !     But  'tis  as  well. 
I  would  not  linger  on  it. 

Twenty  years 

From  this  heart-broken  hour,  I  stood  again 
An  old  man  and  a  stranger,  at  the  door 
Of  this  same  palace.     I  had  been  a  slave 
For  gold  that  time.  My  star  had  wrought  with  me ! 
And  I  was  richer  than  the  wizard  king 
Throned  in  the  mines  of  Ind.     I  could  not  look 
On  my  innumerable  gems,  the  glare 


AND      HIS      DAUGHTER.  39 

Pained  so  my  sun-struck  eyes.     My  gold  was 
countless. 

ISIDORE. 

And  Lady  Clare  1 

LORD    ITON. 

I  met  upon  the  threshold 
Her  very  self — all  youth,  all  loveliness — 
So  like  the  fresh-kept  picture  in  my  brain, 
That  for  a  moment  I  forgot  all  else, 
And  stagger'd  back  and  wept.   She  passed  me  by 
With  a  cold  look — 

ISIDORE. 

Oh !   not  the  Lady  Clare  ! 

LORD    IVON. 

Her  daughter  yet  herself!   But  what  a  change 
Waited  me  here  !     My  thin  and  grizzled  locks 
Were  fairer  now  than  the  young  minstrel's  curls; 
My  sun-burnt  visage  and  contracted  eye 
Than  the  gay  soldier  in  his  gallant  mien  ; 


40  LORDIVON 

My  words  were  wit,  my  looks  interpreted, 
And  Lady  Clare — I  tell  you,  Lady  Clare 
Leaned  fondly — fondly  !  on  my  wasted  arm. 

0  God !   how  changed  my  nature  with  all  this ! 
I,  that  had  been  all  love  and  tenderness, — 
The  truest  and  most  gentle  heart,  till  now 
That  ever  beat — grew  suddenly  a  devil ! 

1  bought  me  lands,  and  titles,  and  received 
Men's  homage  with  a  smooth  hypocrisy ; 
And — you  will  scarce  believe  me,  Isidore — 

I  suffered  them  to  wile  their  peerless  daughter, 
Tne  image  and  the  pride  of  Lady  Clare, 
To  wed  me ! 

ISIDORE. 
Sir  !  you  did  not  t 

LORD    IVON. 

Ay  !  I  saw 

Th'  indignant  anger  when  her  mother  first 
Broke  the  repulsive  wish,  and  the  degrees 
Of  shuddering  reluctance  as  her  mind 
Admitted  the  intoxicating  tales 


AND     HIS     DAUGHTER.  41 

Of  wealth  unlimited.     And  when  she  look'd 
On  my  age-stricken  features,  and  my  form, 
Wasted  before  its  time,  and  turned  away 
To  hide  from  me  her  tears,  her  very  mother 
Whispered  the  cursed  comfort  in  her  ear 
That  made  her  what  she  is  ! 

ISIDORE. 

You  could  not  wed  her, 
Knowing  all  this  ! 

LORD    IVON. 

I  felt  that  I  had  lost 

My  life  else.     I  had  wrung,  for  forty  years, 
My  frame  to  its  last  withers  ;  I  had  flung 
My  boyhood's  fire  away — the  energy 
Of  a  most  sinless  youth — the  toil,  and  fret, 
And  agony  of  manhood.     I  had  dared, 
Fought,  suffered,  slaved — and  never  for  an  hour 
Forgot  or  swerved  from  my  resolve ;  and  now — 
With  the  delirious  draught  upon  my  lips — 
Dash  down  the  cup  ! 
4* 


LORD     IVON 
ISIDORE. 

Yet  she  had  never  wronged  you  I 

LORD    IVON. 

Thou'rt  pleading  for  thy  mother,  my  sweet  child ! 
And  angels  hear  thee.     But  if  she  was  wrong'd, 
The  sin  be  on  the  pride  that  sells  its  blood 
Coldly  and  only  for  this  damning  gold. 
Had  I  not  offered  youth  first  ?     Came  I  not 
With  my  hands  brimm'd  with  glory  to  buy  love — 
And  was  I  not  denied  ? 

ISIDORE. 

Yet,  dearest  father, 
They  forced  her  not  to  wed  ? 

LORD  IVON. 

I  called  her  back 

Myself  from  the  church  threshold,  and,  before 
Her  mother  and  her  kinsmen,  bade  her  swear 
It  was  her  own  free  choice  to  marry  me. 
I  showed  her  my  shrunk  hand,  and  bade  her  think 
If  that  was  like  a  bridegroom,  and  beware 


AND     HIS     DAUGHTER.  43 

Of  perjuring  her  chaste  and  spotless  soul, 
If  now  she  loved  me  not. 


ISIDORE. 

What  said  she,  sir? 

LORD    IVON. 

Oh  !  they  had  made  her  even  as  themselves  ; 
And  her  young  heart  was  colder  than  the  slab 
Unsunn'd  beneath  Pentelicus.     She  pressed 
My  withered  fingers  in  her  dewy  clasp, 
And  smiled  up  in  my  face,  and  chid  "  my  lord* 
For  his  wlid  fancies,  and  led  on  ! 

ISIDORE, 

And  no 

Misgiving  at  the  altar  ? 

LORD    IVON. 

None  !     She  swore 

To  love  and  cherish  me  till  death  should  part  us, 
With  a  voice  as  clear  as  mine. 


44  LORDIVON 

ISIDORE. 

And  kept  it,  father ! 
In  mercy  tell  me  so ! 

LORD  IVON. 
She  lives,  my  daughter  ! 


Long  ere  my  babe  was  born,  my  pride  had  ebb'd, 
And  let  my  heart  down  to  its  better  founts 
Of  tenderness.     I  had  no  friends — not  one  ! 
My  love  gush'd  to  my  wife.     I  rack'd  my  brain 
To  find  her  a  new  pleasure  every  hour — • 
Yet  not  with  me — I  fear'd  to  haunt  her  eye  ! 
Only  at  night,  when  she  was  slumbering 
In  all  her  beauty,  I  would  put  away 
The  curtains  till  the  pale  night-lamp  shone  on  her, 
And  watch  her  through  my  tears. 

One  night  her  lips 

Parted  as  I  gazed  on  them,  and  the  name 
Of  a  young  noble,  who  had  been  my  guest, 
Stole  forth  in  broken  murmurs.     I  let  fall 


ANDHISDATTGHTER.  45 

The  curtains  silently,  and  left  her  there 
To  slumber  and  dream  on  ;  and  gliding  forth 
Upon  the  terrace,  knelt  to  my  pale  star, 
And  swore,  that  if  it  pleased  the  God  of  light 
To  let  me  look  upon  the  unborn  child 
Lying  beneath  her  heart,  I  would  but  press 
One  kiss  upon  its  lips,  and  take  away 
The  life  that  was  a  blight  upon  her  years. 

ISIDORE. 
I  was  that  child ! 

LORD    IVON. 

Yes — and  I  heard  the  cry 
Of  thy  small  "  piping  mouth"  as  'twere  a  call 
From  my  remembering  star.     I  waited  only 
Thy  mother's  strength  to  bear  the  common  shock 
Of  death  within  the  doors.     She  rose  at  last, 
And, oh!  so  sweetly  pale!  And  thou,  my  child 
My  heart  misgave  me  as  I  looked  upon  thee  ; 
But  he  was  ever  at  her  side  whose  name 
She  murmur'd  in  her  sleep ;  and,  lingering  on 
To  drink  a  little  of  thy  sweetness  more 


46  LORD    IVON    AND    HIS    DAUGHTER. 

Before  I  died,  I  watched  their  stolen  love 
As  she  had  been  my  daughter,  with  a  pure, 
Passionless  joy  that  I  should  leave  her  soon 
To  love  him  as  she  would.     I  know  not  how 
To  tell  thee  more.         *  *  * 

Come,  sweet !  she  is  not  worthy 
Of  tears  like  thine  and  mine.     *  * 

*  *  *  She  fled  and  left  me 
The  very  night !     The  poison  was  prepared — 
And  she  had  been  a  widow  with  the  morn 
Rich  as  Golconda.     As  the  midnight  chimed 
My  star  rose.     Gazing  on  its  mounting  orb, 

I  raised  the  chalice — but  a  weakness  came 
Over  my  heart ;  and,  taking  up  the  lamp, 
I  glided  to  her  chamber,  and  remov'd 
The  curtains  for  a  last,  a  parting  look 
Upon  my  child. 

*  *  *         Had  she  but  taken  thee, 
I  could  have  felt  she  had  a  mother's  heart, 
And  drain'd  the  chalice  still.     I  could  not  leave 
My  babe  alone  in  such  a  heartless  world ! 

ISIDORE. 

Thank  God !     Thank  God  ! 


47 


BIRTH-DAY  VERSES. 


"  The  heart  that  we  have  lain  near  before  our  birth  is  the  only 
one  that  cannot  forget  that  it  hath  loved  us." 

PHILIP    SLINGSBY. 


My  birthday  ! — Oh  beloved  mother! 

My  heart  is  with  thee  o'er  the  seas. 
I  did  not  think  to  count  another 

Before  I  wept  upon  thy  knees — 
Before  this  scroll  of  absent  years 
Was  blotted  with  thy  streaming  tears. 

My  own  I  do  not  care  to  check. 
I  weep — albeit  here  alone — 


48  BIRTH-DAY    VERSES. 

As  if  I  bung  upon  thy  neck, 

As  if  thy  lips  were  on  my  own, 
As  if  this  full,  sad  heart  of  mine, 
Were  beating  closely  upon  thine. 

Four  weary  years  !     How  looks  she  now? 

What  light  is  in  those  tender  eyes  1 
What  trace  of  lime  has  touch'd  the  brow 

Whose  look  is  borrow'd  of  the  skies 
That  listen  to  her  nightly  prayer  1 
How  is  she  changed  since  he  was  there 
Who  sleeps  upon  her  heart  alway — 

Whose  name  upon  her  lips  is  worn — 
For  whom  the  night  seems  made  to  pray — 

For  whom  she  wakes  to  pray  at  morn — 
Whose  sight  is  dim,  whose  heart-strings  stir, 
Who  weeps  these  tears — to  think  of  her  ! 

I  know  not  if  my  mother's  eyes 

Would  find  me  chang'd  in  slighter  things  ; 
I've  wandered  beneath  many  skies, 

And  tasted  of  some  bitter  springs  ; 
And  many  leaves,  once  fair  and  gay, 


BIRTH-DAY     VERSES.  49 

From  youth's  full  flower  have  dropp'd  away — 
But,  as  these  looser  leaves  depart, 

The  lessen'd  flower  gets  near  the  core, 
And,  when  deserted  quite,  the  heart 

Takes  closer  what  was  dear  of  yore — 
And  yearns  to  those  who  lov'd  it  first — 
The  sunshine  and  the  dew  by  which  its  bud  was  nurst. 

Dear  mother !  dost  thou  love  me  yet  ? 

Am  I  remember'd  in  my  home  ? 
When  those  I  love  for  joy  are  met, 

Does  some  one  wish  that  I  would  come  ? 
Thou  dost — I  am  belov'd  of  these  ! 

But,  as  the  schoolboy  numbers  o'er 
Night  after  night  the  Pleiades 

And  finds  the  stars  he  found  before, 
As  turns  the  maiden  oft  her  token, 

As  counts  the  miser  aye  his  gold — 
So,  till  life's  silver  chord  is  broken, 

Would  I  of  thy  fond  love  be  told. 
My  heart  is  full,  mine  eyes  are  wet- 
Dear  mother!  dost  thou  love  thy  long-lost  wanderer 
yet] 


50  BIRTH-DAY     VERSES. 

Oh !   when  the  hour  to  meet  again 

Creeps  on,  and,  speeding  o'er  the  sea, 
My  heart  takes  up  its  lengthen'd  chain, 

And,  link  by  link,  draws  nearer  thee — 
When  land  is  hailed,  and,  from  the  shore, 

Comes  off  the  blessed  breath  of  home, 
With  fragrance  from  my  mother's  door 
Of  flowers  forgotten  when  I  come — 
When  port  is  gain'd,  and,  slowly  now, 

The  old  familiar  paths  are  past, 
And,  entering,  unconscious  how, 

I  gaze  upon  thy  face  at  last, 
And  run  to  thee,  all  faint  and  weak, 
And  feel  thy  tears  upon  my  cheek — 

Oh  !   if  my  heart  break  not  with  joy, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  fairer  seem  ; 

And  I  shall  grow  once  more  a  boy : 
And,  mother  ! — 'twill  be  like  a  dream 

That  we  were  parted  thus  for  years — 
And  once  that  we  have  dried  our  tears, 

How  will  the  days  seem  long  and  bright- 
To  meet  thee  always  with  the  morn, 

And  hear  thy  blessing  every  night — 


BIRTH-DAY     VERSES.  51 

Thy  "  dearest,"  thy  "  first-born  !"— 
And  be  no  more  as  now  in  a  strange  land,  forlorn  1 

London,  January  20th,  1835. 


52 


FLORENCE  GRAY. 


I  WAS  in  Greece.     It  was  the  hour  of  noon 

And  the  Egean  wind  had  dropp'd  asleep 

Upon  Hymettus,  and  the  thy  my  isles 

Of  Salamis  and  Egina  lay  hung 

Like  clouds  upon  the  bright  and  breathless  sea. 

I  had  climb'd  up  the  Acropolis  at  morn, 

And  hours  had  fled  as  time  will  in  a  dream 

Amidst  its  deathless  ruins — for  the. air 

Is  full  of  spirits  in  these  mighty  fanes, 

And  they  walk  with  you !  As  it  sultrier  grew, 

I  laid  me  down  within  a  shadow  deep 

Of  a  tall  column  of  the  Parthenon, 

And,  in  an  absent  idleness  of  thought, 

I  scrawl'd  upon  the  smooth  and  marble  base. 


FLORENCE     GRAY.  53 

Tell  me,  O  memory,  what  wrote  I  there  ? 
The  name  of  a  sweet  child  I  knew  at  Rome  ! 

I  was  in  Asia.     'Twas  a  peerless  night 

Upon  the  plains  of  Sardis,  and  the  moon, 

Touching  my  eyelids  through  the  wind-stirr'd  tent, 

Hajd  witch'd  me  from  my  slumber.     I  arose 

And  silently  stole  forth,  and  by  the  brink 

Of  "  golden  Pactolus,"  where  bathe  his  waters 

The  bases  of  Cybele's  columns  fair, 

I  paced  away  the  hours.     In  wakeful  mood 

I  mused  upon  the  storied  past  awhile, 

Watching  the  moon  that  with  the  same  mild  eye 

Had  looked  upon  the  mighty  Lydian  kings 

Sleeping  around  me — Croesus,  who  had  heap'd 

Within  that  mouldering  portico  his  gold, 

And  Gyges,  buried  with  his  viewless  ring 

Beneath  yon  swelling  tumulus — and  then 

I  loitered  up  the  valley  to  a  small 

And  humbler  ruin,  where  the  undented* 

*  "Thou  hast  a  few  names  even  in  Sardis  which  have  not 
defiled  their  garments :  and  they  shall  walk  with  me  hi  white ; 
for  they  are  worthy." — Revelation  iii.  4. 

5* 


54  FLORENCE     GRAY. 

Of  the  Apocalypse  their  garments  kept 
Spotless;  and  crossing  with  a  conscious  awe 
The  broken  threshold,  to  my  spirit's  eye 
It  seem'd  as  if,  amid  the  moonlight,  stood 
"  The  angel  of  the  church  of  Sardis"  still ! 
And  I  again  pass'd  onward,  and  as  dawn 
Paled  the  hright  morning  star,  I  laid  me  down 
Weary  and  sad  beside  the  river's  brink, 
And  'twixt  the  moonlight  and  the  rose  morn, 
Wrote  with  my  finger  in  the  "  golden  sands." 
Tell  me,  O  memory,  what  wrote  I  there  ? 
The  name  of  the  sweet  child  I  knew  at  Rome  ! 

The  dust  is  old  upon  my  "  sandal-shoon," 
And  still  I  am  a  pilgrim  ;  I  have  roved 
From  wild  America  to  spicy  Ind, 
And  worshipped  at  innumerable  shrines 
Of  beauty  ;  and  the  painter's  art,  to  me, 
And  sculpture,  speak  as  with  a  living  tongue, 
And  of  dead  kingdoms  I  recal  the  soul, 
Sitting  amid  their  ruins.     I  have  stored 
My  memory  with  thoughts  that  can  allay 
Fever  and  sadness,  and  when  life  gets  dim, 


FLORENCE    GRAY.  55 

And  I  am  overladen  in  ray  years, 
Minister  to  me.     But  when  wearily 
The  mind  gives  over  toiling,  and  with  eyes 
Open  but  seeing  not,  and  senses  all 
Lying  awake  within  their  chambers  dim, 
Thought  settles  like  a  fountain,  still  and  clear — 
Far  in  its  sleeping  depths,  as  'twere  a  gem, 
Tell  me,  O  memory,  what  shines  so  fair  ? 
The  face,  of  the  sweet  child  I  knew  at  Rome  ! 


56 


TO 


"  The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star — 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow — 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow," 

SIIELLEY. 

"  L'alma,  quel  che  non  ha,  sogna  e  figura." 

METASTASIO. 


As,  gazing  on  the  Pleiades, 

We  count  each  fair  and  starry  one, 
Yet  wander  from  the  light  of  these 

To  muse  upon  the  Pleiad  gone — 
As,  bending  o'er  fresh  gathered  flowers, 

The  rose's  most  enchanting  hue 
Reminds  us  but  of  other  hours 

Whose  roses  were  all  lovely  too — 
So,  dearest,  when  I  rove  among 

The  bright  ones  of  this  foreign  sky, 


T  O  . 

And  mark  the  smile,  and  list  the  song, 

And  watch  the  dancers  gliding  by, 
The  fairer  still  they  seem  to  be, 
The  more  it  stirs  a  thought  of  thee  ! 

The  sad,  sweet  bells  of  twilight  chime, 

Of  many  hearts  may  touch  but  one, 
And  so  this  seeming  careless  rhyme 

Will  whisper  to  thy  heart  alone. 
I  give  it  to  the  winds  !     The  bird, 

Let  loose,  to  his  far  nest  will  flee, 
And  love,  though  breathed  but  on  a  word, 

Will  find  thee,  over  land  and  sea. 
Though  clouds  across  the  sky  have  driven, 

We  trust  the  star  at  last  will  shine, 
And  like  the  very  light  of  heaven 

I  trust  thy  love.     Trust  thou  in  mine  ! 


57 


58 


TO 


"  Oh,  by  that  little  word 
How  many  thoughts  are  stirr'd  ! — 
The  last,  the  last,  the  last!" 


THE  star  may  but  a  meteor  be, 

That  breaks  upon  the  stormy  night ; 
And  I  may  err,  believing  thee 

A  spark  of  heaven's  own  changeless  light  [ 
But  if  on  earth  beams  aught  so  fair, 

It  seems,  of  all  the  lights  that  shine, 
Serenest  in  its  truth,  'tis  there, 

Burning  in  those  soft  eyes  of  thine. 
Yet  long-watch'd  stars  from  heaven  have  rushM, 

And  long-lov'd  friends  have  dropp'd  away, 
And  mine — my  very  heart  have  crush'd  ! 

And  I  nave  hop'd  this  many  a  day, 
}  It  liv'd  no  more  for  love  or  pain  ! 
But  thou  hast  stirr'd  its  depths  again, 


T  o .  59 

And  to  its  dull,  out-wearied  ear, 
Thy  voice  of  melody  has  crept,  . 

In  tones  it  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  now  I  feel  it  only  slept, 

And  know,  at  ev'n  thy  lightest  smile, 
It  gathered  fire  and  strength  the  while. 

Fail  me  not  thou !     This  feeling  past, 
My  heart  would  never  rouse  again. 
Thou  art  the  brightest — but  the  last ! 

And  if  this  trust,  this  love  is  vain — 
If  thou,  all  peerless  as  thou  art, 
Be  not  less  fair  than  true  of  heart — 
My  loves  are  o'er  !     The  sun  will  shine 
Upon  no  grave  so  hush'd  as  this  dark  breast  of  mine, 


60 


THE  CONFESSIONAL. 


11  When  thou  hast  met  with  careless  hearts  and  cold, 
Hearts  that  young  love  may  touch,  but  never  hold 
Not  changeless,  as  the  loved  and  left  of  old — 

Remember  me — remember  me — 

I  passionately  pray  of  thee !" 

LADY  E.  S.  WORTLEY. 


I  THOUGHT  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

On  ocean  many  a  weary  night — 
When  heaved  the  long  and  sullen  sea, 

With  only  waves  and  stars  in  sight. 
We  stole  along  by  isles  of  balm, 

We  furPd  before  the  coming  gale, 
We  slept  amid  the  breathless  calm, 

We  flew  beneath  the  straining  sail — 
But  thou  wert  lost  for  years  to  me, 
And,  day  and  night  I  thought  of  thee! 
I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  France — amid  the  gay  saloon, 


THECONFESSIONAL.  61 

Where  eyes  as  dark  as  eyes  may  be 
Are  many  as  the  leaves  in  June — 

Where  life  is  love,  and  ev'n  the  air 
Is  pregnant  with  impassion'd  thought, 

And  song  and  dance  and  music  are 

With  one  warm  meaning  only  fraught — 

My  half-snar'd  heart  broke  lightly  free, 

And  with  a  blush  I  thought  of  thee! 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Florence, — where  the  fiery  hearts 
Of  Italy  are  breathed  away 

In  wonders  of  the  deathless  arts; 
Where  strays  the  Contadina  down 

Val  d'  Arno  with  song  of  old  ; 
Where  clime  and  women  seldom  frown, 

And  life  runs  over  sands  of  gold  ; 
I  stray'd  to  lone  Fiesole 
On  many  an  eve,  and  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 
In  Rome, — when  on  the  Palatine 
Night  left  the  Caesar's  palace  free 


62  THE     CONFESSIONAL. 

To  Time's  forgetful  foot  and  mine ; 
Or,  on  the  Coliseum's  wall, 

When  moonlight  touch'd  the  ivied  stone, 
Reclining,  with  a  thought  of  all 

That  o'er  this  scene  has  come  and  gone — 
The  shades  of  Rome  would  start  and  flee 
Unconsciously — I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Vallombrosa's  holy  shade, 
Where  nobles  born  the  friars  be, 

By  life's  rude  changes  humbler  made. 
Here  Mjlton  fram'd  his  Paradise; 

I  slept  within  his  very  cell ; 
And,  as  1  clos'd  my  weary  eyes, 

I  thought  the  cowl  would  fit  me  well — 
The  cloisters  breath'd,  it  seemed  to  me, 
Of  heart's-ease — but  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 
In  Venice, — on  a  night  in  June  ; 

When  through  the  city  of  the  sea, 
Like  dust  of  silver  slept  the  moon. 


THE     CONFESSIONAL.  63 

Slo\v  turn'd  his  oar  the  gondolier, 
And,  as  the  black  barks  glided  by, 

The  water  to  my  leaning  ear 

Bore  back  the  lover's  passing  sigh — 

It  was  no  place  alone  to  be — 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  the  Ionian  Isles — when  straying 
With  wise  Ulysses  by  the  sea — 

Old  Homer's  songs  around  me  playing ; 
Or,  watching  the  bewitched  caique, 

That  o'er  the  star-lit  waters  flew, 
I  listened  to  the  helmsman  Greek, 

Who  sung  the  song  that  Sappho  knew— 
The  poet's  spell,  the  bark,  the  sea, 
All  vanished — as  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 
In  Greece — when  rose  the  Parthenon 

Majestic  o'er  the  Egean  sea, 
And  heroes  with  it,  one  by  one  ; 

When,  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 


64  THE     CONFESSIONAL, 

Where  Lais  and  Leontium  stray'd 
Discussing  Plato's  mystic  theme, 

I  lay  at  noontide  in  the  shade — 
The  Egean  wind,  the  whispering  tree, 
Had  voices — and  I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

In  Asia — on  the  Dardanelles  ; 
Where  swiftly  as  the  waters  flee, 

Each  wave  some  sweet  old  story  tells  ; 
And,  seated  by  the  marble  tank 

Which  sleeps  by  Ilium's  ruins  old, 
(The  fount  where  peerless  Helen  drank, 

And  Venus  lav'd  her  locks  of  gold,*) 
I  thrill'd  such  classic  haunts  to  see, 
Yet  even  here — I  thought  of  thee. 

I  thought  of  thee — I  thought  of  thee, 

Where  glide  the  Bosphor's  lovely  waters, 
All  palace-lined  from  sea  to  sea  ; 


*  In  the  Scamander, — before  contending  for  the  prize  of 
beauty  on  Mount  Ida.  Its  head  waters  fill  a  beautiful  tank  near 
the  walls  of  Troy. 


THECONPESSIONAL.  65 

And  ever  on  its  shores  the  daughters 
Of  the  delicious  East  are  seen, 

Printing  the  brink  with  slipper'd  feet, 
And  oh,  the  snowy  folds  between, 

What  eyes  of  heaven  your  glances  meet ! 
Peris  of  light  no  fairer  be — 
Yet — in  Staraboul — I  thought  of  thee. 

I've  thought  of  thee — I've  thought  of  thee, 

Through  change  that  teaches  to  forget ; 
Thy  face  looks  up  from  every  sea, 

In  every  star  thine  eyes  are  set, 
Though  roving  beneath  Orient  skies, 

Whose  golden  beauty  breathes  of  rest, 
I  envy  every  bird  that  flies 

Into  the  far  and  clouded  West : 
I  think  of  thee — I  think  of  thee  ! 
Oh,  dearest!  hast  thou  thought  of  me1 


66 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  EUROPE. 


BRIGHT  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast  I 
Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue  ; 

Let  star  and  stripe  be  westward  cast, 
And  point  as  Freedom's  eagle  flew  ! 

Strain  home !  oh  lithe  and  quivering  spars  t 

Point  home,  my  country's  flag  of  stars  ! 

The  wind  blows  fair !  the  vessel  feels 

The  pressure  of  the  rising  breeze, 
And,  swiftest  of  a  thousand  keels, 

She  leaps  to  the  careering  seas  ! 
Oh,  fair,  fair  cloud  of  snowy  sail, 

In  whose  white  breast  I  seem  to  liet 
How  oft,  when  blew  this  eastern  gale, 

I've  seen  your  semblance  in  the  sky, 


LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE.          67 

And  long'd,  with  breaking  heart  to  flee 
On  such  white  pinions  o'er  the  sea ! 

Adieu,  oh  lands  of  fame  and  eld! 

I  turn  to  watch  our  foamy  track, 
And  thoughts  with  which  I  first  beheld 

Yon  clouded  line,  come  hurrying  back  ; 
My  lips  are  dry  with  vague  desire, — 

My  cheek  once  more  is  hot  with  joy — 
My  pulse,  my  brain,  my  soul  on  fire  ! — 

Oh,  what  has  changed  that  traveller-boy  I 
As  leaves  the  ship  this  dying  foam, 
His  visions  fade  behind — his  weary  heart  speeds  home  ! 

Adieu,  oh  soft  and  southern  shore, 

Where  dwelt  the  stars  long  miss'd  in  heaven ! — 
Those  forms  of  beauty  seen  no  more, 

Yet  once  to  Art's  rapt  vision  given! 
Oh,  still  th'  enamored  sun  delays, 

And  pries  through  fount  and  crumbling  fane, 
To  win  to  his  adoring  gaze 

Those  children  of  the  sky  again  I 
Irradiate  beauty,  such  as  never 


68  LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE. 

That  light  on  other  earth  hath  shone, 
Hath  made  this  land  her  home  forever  ; 

And  could  I  live  for  this  alone — 
Were  not  my  birthright  brighter  far 
Than  such  voluptuous  slave's  can  be — 
Held  not  the  West  one  glorious  star 

New-born  and  blazing  for  the  free — 
Soar'd  not  to  heaven  our  eagle  yet — 
Rome,  with  her  Helot  sons,  should  teach  me  to  forget! 

Adieu,  oh  fatherland  !      I  see 

Your  white  cliffs  on  th'  horizon's  rim, 
And  though  to  freer  skies  I  flee, 

My  heart  swells,  and  my  eyes  are  dim  ! 
As  knows  the  dove  the  task  you  give  her, 

When  loosed  upon  a  foreign  shore — 
As  spreads  the  rain-drop  in  the  river 

In  which  it  may  have  flowed  before — 
To  England,  over  vale  and  mountain, 

My  fancy  flew  from  climes  more  fair — 
My  blood,  that  knew  its  parent  fountain, 

Ran  warm  and  fast  in  England's  air. 


LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE.  69 

My  mother  !  in  thy  prayer  to-night 

There  come  new  words  and  warmer  tears ! 
On  long,  long  darkness  breaks  the  light — 

Comes  home  the  loved,  the  lost  for  years  ! 
Sleep  safe,  oh  wave-worn  mariner ! 

Fear  not,  to-night,  or  storm  or  sea  ! 
The  ear  of  heaven  bends  low  to  her! 

He  comes  to  shore  who  sails  with  me ! 
The  wind-tost  spider  needs  no  token 

How  stands  the  tree  when  lightnings  blaze — 
And  by  a  thread  from  heaven  unbroken, 

I  know  my  mother  lives  and  prays  ! 

Dear  mother  !  when  our  lips  can  speak — 

When  first  our  tears  will  let  us  see — 
When  I  can  gaze  upon  thy  cheek, 

And  thou,  with  thy  dear  eyes,  on  me — 
'Twill  be  a  pastime  little  sad 

To  trace  what  weight  time's  heavy  fingers 
Upon  each  other's  forms  have  had — • 

For  all  may  flee,  so  feeling  lingers ! 
But  there's  a  change,  beloved  mother  ! 

To  stir  far  deeper  thoughts  of  thine  ; 


70  LINES    ON    LEAVING    EUROPE. 

I  come — but  with  me  comes  another 

To  share  the  heart  once  only  mine ! 
Thou,  on  whose  thoughts,  when  sad  and  lonely, 

One  star  arose  in  memory's  heaven — 
Thou,  who  hast  watch'd  one  treasure  only — 

Watered  one  flower  with  tears  at  even — 
Room  in  thy  heart !     The  hearth  she  left 

Is  darken'd  to  lend  light  to  ours ! 
There  are  bright  flowers  of  care  bereft, 

And  hearts  that  languish  more  than  flowers — 
She  was  their  light — their  very  air — 

Room,  mother!  in  thy  heart! — place  for  her  in  thy 
prayer ! 

English  Channel,  May,  1836. 


71 


THE  DYING  ALCHYMIST. 


THE  night  wind  with  a  desolate  moan  swept  by, 
And  the  old  shutters  of  the  turret  swung 
Screaming  upon  their  hinges,  and  the  moon, 
As  the  torn  edges  of  the  clouds  flew  past, 
Struggled  aslant  the  stained  and  broken  panes 
So  dimly,  that  the  watchful  eye  of  death 

Scarcely  was  conscious  when  it  went  and  came. 

***** 

The  fire  beneath  his  crucible  was  low  ; 
Yet  still  it  burned,  and  ever  as  his  thoughts 
Grew  insupportable,  he  raised  himself 
Upon  his  wasted  arm,  and  stirred  the  coals 
With  difficult  energy,  and  when  the  rod 
Fell  from  his  nerveless  fingers,  and  his  eye 
Felt  faint  within  its  socket,  he  shrunk  back 


72  THE     DYING     ALCHYMIST. 

Upon  his  pallet,  and  with  unclosed  lips 
Muttered  a  curse  on  death  !     The  silent  room 
From  its  dim  corners  mockingly  gave  back 
His  rattling  breath  ;  the  humming  in  the  fire 
Had  the  distinctness  of  a  knell,  and  when 
Duly  the  antique  horologe  beat  one, 
He  drew  a  phial  from  beneath  his  head, 
And  drank.     And  instantly  his  lips  compressed, 
And  with  a  shudder  in  his  skeleton  frame, 
He  rose  with  supernatural  strength,  and  sat 
Upright,  and  communed  with  himself: — 

I  did  not  think  to  die 
Till  I  had  finished  what  I  had  to  do  ; 
I  thought  to  pierce  th'  eternal  secret  through 

With  this  my  mortal  eye ; 
I  felt — Oh  God!   it  seemeth  even  now 
This  cannot  be  the  death-dew  on  my  brow. 

And  yet  it  is — I  feel 
Of  this  dull  sickness  at  my  heart  afraid ; 
And  in  my  eyes  the  death-sparks  flash  and  fade  ; 

And  something  seems  to  steal 


THEDYINGALCHYMIST.  73 

Over  my  bosom  like  a  frozen  hand, 
Binding  its  pulses  with  an  icy  band. 

And  this  is  death  !     But  why 
Feel  I  this  wild  recoil  1     It  cannot  be 
Th'  immortal  spirit  shuddereth  to  be  free ! 

Would  it  not  leap  to  fly, 
Like  a  chain'd  eaglet  at  its  parent's  call  t 
I  fear — I  fear  that  this  poor  life  is  all ! 

Yet  thus  to  pass  away  ! — 
To  live  but  for  a  hope  that  mocks  at  last — 
To  agonize,  to  strive,  to  watch,  to  fast, 

To  waste  the  light  of  day, 
Night's  better  beauty,  feeling,  fancy,  thought, 
All  that  we  have  and  are — for  this — for  nought ! 

Grant  me  another  year, 
God  of  my  spirit! — but  a  day — to  win 
Something  to  satisfy  this  thirst  within ! 

I  would  know  something  here  ! 
Break  for  me  but  one  seal  that  is  unbroken ! 

Speak  for  me  but  one  word  that  is  unspoken ! 

7 


74  THEDYINGALCHYMIST. 

Vain — vain  ! — my  brain  is  turning 
With  a  swift  dizziness,  and  ray  heart  grows  sick, 
And  these  hot  temple-throbs  come  fast  and  thick, 

And  I  am  freezing — burning — 
Dying  !   Oh  God!   if  I  might  only  live  ! 
My  phial Ha  !  it  thrills  me — I  revive. 


Ay — were  not  man  to  die 
He  were  too  glorious  for  this  narrow  sphere  ! 
Had  he  but  time  to  brood  on  knowledge  here — 

Could  he  but  train  his  eye — 
Might  he  but  wait  the  mystic  word  and  hour — 
Only  his  Maker  would  transcend  his  power ! 

Earth  has  no  mineral  strange — 
Th'  illimitable  air  no  hidden  wings — 
Water  no  quality  in  its  covert  springs, 

And  fire  no  power  to  change — 
Seasons  no  mystery,  and  stars  no  spell, 
Which  the  unwasting  soul  might  not  compel. 

Oh,  but  for  time  to  track 
The  upper  stars  into  the  pathless  sky — 


THEDYINGALCHYMIST.  75 

To  see  th'  invisible  spirits,  eye  to  eye — 

To  hurl  the  lightning  back — 
To  tread  unhurt  the  sea's  dim-lighted  halls — 
To  chase  Day's  chariot  to  the  horizon-walls — 

And  more,  much  more — for  now 
The  life-sealed  fountains  of  my  nature  move — 
To  nurse  and  purify  this  human  love — 

To  clear  the  god-like  brow 
Of  weakness  and  mistrust,  and  bow  it  down 
Worthy  and  beautiful,  to  the  much-loved  one — 

This  were  indeed  to  feel 
The  soul-thirst  slaken  at  the  living  stream — 
To  live — Oh  God !  that  life  is  but  a  dream! 

And  death Aha  !   I  reel — 

Dim — dim — I  faint — darkness  comes  o'er  my  eye— - 
Cover  me  !  save  me  ! God  of  heaven  !   I  die  ! 

'Twas  morning,  and  the  old  man  lay  alone. 
No  friend  had  closed  his  eyelids,  and  his  lips, 
Open  and  ashy  pale,  th'  expression  wore 
Of  his  death-struggle.     His  long  silvery  hair 


76  THE     DYING     ALCHYMIST. 

Lay  on  his  hollow  temples  thin  and  wild, 
His  frame  was  wasted,  and  his  features  wan 
And  haggard  as  with  want,  and  in  his  palm 
His  nails  were  driven  deep,  as  if  the  throe 
Of  the  last  agony  had  wrung  him  sore. 

The  storm  was  raging  still.     The  shutters  swung 
Screaming  as  harshly  in  the  fitful  wind, 
And  all  without  went  on — as  aye  it  will, 
Sunshine  or  tempest,  reckless  that  a  heart 
Is  breaking,  or  has  broken  in  its  change. 

The  fire  beneath  the  crucible  was  out ; 
The  vessels  of  his  mystic  art  lay  round, 
Useless  and  cold  as  the  ambitious  hand 
That  fashioned  them,  and  the  small  silver  rod, 
Familiar  to  his  touch  for  threescore  years, 
Lay  on  th'  alembic's  rim,  as  if  it  still 
Might  vex  the  elements  at  its  master's  will. 

And  thus  had  passed  from  its  unequal  frame 
A  soul  of  fire — a  sun-bent  eagle  stricken 
From  his  high  soaring  down — an  instrument 


THE    DYING    ALGHY  MIST.  77 

Broken  with  its  own  compass.     Oh  how  poor 
Seems  the  rich  gift  of  genius,  when  it  lies, 
Like  the  adventurous  bird  that  hath  out-flown 
His  strength  upon  the  sea,  ambition-wrecked — 
A  thing  the  thrush  might  pity,  as  she  sits 
Brooding  in  quiet  on  her  lowly  nest. 


7* 


78 


THE  LEPER. 


"  ROOM  for  the  leper !      Room  !"    And,  as  he  came, 

The  cry  passed  on — "  Room  for  the  leper  !   Room  !" 

Sunrise  was  slanting  on  the  city  gates 

Rosy  and  beautiful,  and  from  the  hills 

The  early  risen  poor  were  coming  in 

Duly  and  cheerfully  to  their  toil,  and  up 

Rose  the  sharp  hammer's  clink,  and  the  far  hum 

Of  moving  wheels  and  multitudes  astir, 

And  all  that  in  a  city  murmur  swells, 

Unheard  but  by  the  watcher's  weary  ear, 

Aching  with  night's  dull  silence,  or  the  sick 

Hailing  the  welcome  light,  and  sounds  that  chase 

The  death-like  images  of  the  dark  away. 


THE      LEPER. 

"  Room  for  the  leper !"     And  aside  they  stood — 
Matron,  and  child,  and  pitiless  manhood — all 
Who  met  him  on  his  way — and  let  him  pass. 
And  onward  through  the  open  gate  he  came, 
A  leper  with  the  ashes  on  his  brow, 
Sackcloth  about  his  loins,  and  on  his  lip 
A  covering,  stepping  painfully  and  slow, 
And  with  a  difficult  utterance,  like  one 
Whose  heart  is  with  an  iron  nerve  put  down, 
Crying  "  Unclean  !   Unclean  !" 

'Twas  now  the  first 
Of  the  Judean  Autumn,  and  the  leaves 
Whose  shadows  lay  so  still  upon  his  path, 
Had  put  their  beauty  forth  beneath  the  eye 
Of  Judah's  loftiest  noble.     He  was  young, 
And  eminently  beautiful,  and  life 
Mantled  in  eloquent  fulness  on  his  lip, 
And  sparkled  in  his  glance,  and  in  his  mien 
There  was  a  gracious  pride  that  every  eye 
Followed  with  benisons — and  this  was  he  ! 
With  the  soft  airs  of  Summer  there  had  come 
A  torpor  on  his  frame,  which  not  the  speed 


79 


80 


THE      LEPER. 


Of  his  best  barb,  nor  music,  nor  the  blast 
Of  the  bold  huntsman's  horn,  nor  aught  that  stirs 
The  spirit  to  its  bent,  might  drive  away. 
The  blood  beat  not  as  wont  within  his  veins ; 
Dimness  crept  o'er  his  eye  ;  a  drowsy  sloth 
Fetter'd  his  limbs  like  palsy,  and  his  mien 
With  all  its  loftiness,  seemed  struck  with  eld. 
Even  his  voice  was  changed — a  languid  moan 
Taking  the  place  of  the  clear,  silver  key  ; 
And  brain  and  sense  grew  faint,  as  if  the  light, 
And  very  air,  were  steeped  in  sluggishness. 
He  strove  with  it  awhile,  as  manhood  will, 
Ever  too  proud  for  weakness,  till  the  rein 
Slackened  within  his  grasp,  and  in  its  poise 
The  arrowy  jereed  like  an  aspen  shook. 
Day  after  day,  he  lay,  as  if  in  sleep. 
His  skin  grew  dry  and  bloodless,  and  white  scales 
Circled  with  livid  purple,  covered  him. 
And  then  his  nails  grew  black,  and  fell  away 
From  the  dull  flesh  about  them,  and  the  hues 
Deepened  beneath  the  hard  unmoistened  scales, 
And  from  their  edges  grew  the  rank  white  hair, 
— And  Melon  was  a  leper ! 


THE      LEPER. 


81 


Day  was  breaking 

When  at  the  altar  of  the  temple  stood 
The  holy  priest  of  God.     The  incense  lamp 
Burned  with  a  struggling  light,  and  a  low  chaunt 
Swelled  through  the  hollow  arches  of  the  roof 
Like  an  articulate  wail,  and  there,  alone, 
Wasted  to  ghastly  thinness,  Helon  knelt. 
The  echoes  of  the  melancholy  strain 
Died  in  the  distant  aisles,  and  he  rose  up, 
Struggling  with  weakness,  and  bowed  down  his  head 
Unto  the  sprinkled  ashes,  and  put  off 
His  costly  raiment  for  the  leper's  garb, 
And  with  the  sackcloth  round  him,  and  his  lip 
Hid  in  a  loathsome  covering,  stood  still 
Waiting  to  hear  his  doom  : — 

Depart !  depart,  O  child 
Of  Israel,  from  the  temple  of  thy  God  ! 
For  He  has  smote  thee  with  his  chastening  rod, 

And  to  the  desert- wild, 
From  all  thou  lov'st  away  thy  feet  must  flee, 
That  from  thy  plague  His  people  may  be  free. 


oZ  THELEPER. 

Depart !   and  come  not  near 
The  busy  mart,  the  crowded  city,  more ; 
Nor  set  thy  foot  a  human  threshold  o'er  ; 

And  stay  thou  not  to  hear 
Voices  that  call  thee  in  the  way  ;  and  fly 
From  all  who  in  the  wilderness  pass  by. 

Wet  not  thy  burning  lip 
In  streams  that  to  a  human  dwelling  glide  ; 
Nor  rest  thee  where  the  covert  fountains  hide  ; 

Nor  kneel  thee  down  to  dip 
The  water  where  the  pilgrim  bends  to  drink, 

By  desert  well  or  river's  grassy  brink. 

And  pass  thou  not  between 
The  weary  traveller  and  the  cooling  breeze  ; 
And  lie  not  down  to  sleep  beneath  the  trees 

Where  human  tracks  are  seen  ; 
Nor  milk  the  goat  that  browseth  on  the  plain, 
Nor  pluck  the  standing  corn,  or  yellow  grain* 

And  now  depart !  and  when 
Thine  heart  is  heavy,  and  thine  eyes  are  dim, 


83 


THE     LEPER. 

Lift  up  thy  prayer  beseechingly  to  Him 

Who,  from  the  tribes  of  men, 
Selected  thee  to  feel  his  chastening  rod. 
Depart !   O  leper  !   and  forget  not  God  ! 

And  he  went  forth — alone  !   not  one  of  all 
The  many  whom  he  loved,  nor  she  whose  name 
Was  woven  in  the  fibres  of  the  heart 
Breaking  within  him  now,  to  come  and  speak 
Comfort  unto  him.     Yea — he  went  his  way,  . 
Sick,  and  heart-broken,  and  alone — to  die  ! 
For  God  had  cursed  the  leper ! 

It  was  noon, 

And  Helon  knelt  beside  a  stagnant  pool 
In  the  lone  wilderness,  and  bathed  his  brow, 
Hot  with  the  burning  leprosy,  and  touched 
The  loathsome  water  to  his  fevered  lips, 
Praying  that  he  might  be  so  blest — to  die ! 
Footsteps  approached,  and  with  no  strength  to  flee, 
He  drew  the  covering  closer  on  his  lip, 
Crying  "  Unclean  !   unclean  !"  and  in  the  folds 
Of  the  coarse  sackcloth  shrouding  up  his  face, 


84  THE     LEPER. 

He  fell  upon  the  earth  till  they  should  pass. 
Nearer  the  stranger  came,  and  bending  o'er 
The  leper's  prostrate  form,  pronounced  his  name. 
"  Melon!" — the  voice  was  like  the  master-tone 
Of  a  rich  instrument — most  strangely  sweet ; 
And  the  dull  pulses  of  disease  awoke, 
And  for  a  moment  beat  beneath  the  hot 
And  leprous  scales  with  a  restoring  thrill. 
"  Helon!  arise !"  and  he  forgot  his  curse, 
And  rose  and  stood  before  him. 

Love  and  awe 

Mingled  in  the  regard  of  Melon's  eye 
As  he  beheld  the  stranger.     He  was  not 
In  costly  raiment  clad,  nor  on  his  brow 
The  symbol  of  a  princely  lineage  wore  ; 
No  followers  at  his  back,  nor  in  his  hand 
Buckler,  or  sword,  or  spear — yet  in  his  mien 
Command  sat  throned  serene,  and  if  he  smiled, 
I  A  kingly  condescension  graced  his  lips, 
The  ,lion  would  have  crouched  to,  in  his  lair. 
His  garb  was  simple,  and  his  sandals  worn ; 
His  stature  modelled  with  a  perfect  grace  ; 


THELEPER.  85 

His  countenance  the  impress  of  a  God 
Touched  with  the  open  innocence  of  a  child ; 
His  eye  was  blue  and  calm,  as  is  the  sky 
In  the  serenest  noon  ;  his  hair  unshorn 
Fell  to  his  shoulders  ;  and  his  curling  beard 
The  fulness  of  perfected  manhood  bore. 
He  looked  on  Helon  earnestly  awhile, 
As  if  his  heart  was  moved,  and,  stooping  down, 
He  took  a  little  water  in  his  hand 
And  laid  it  on  his  brow,  and  said,  "  Be  clean !" 
And  lo  !  the  scales  fell  from  him,  and  his  blood 
Coursed  with  delicious  coolness  through  his  veins, 
And  his  dry  palms  grew  moist,  and  on  his  brow 
The  dewy  softness  of  an  infant's  stole. 
His  leprosy  was  cleansed,  and  he  fell  down 
Prostrate  at  Jesus'  feet  and  worshiped  him. 


86 


PARRHASIUS. 


"  Parrhasius,  a  painter  of  Athens,  amongst  those  Olynthian 
captives  Philip  of  Macedon  brought  home  to  sell,  bought  one 
very  old  man;  and  when  he  had  him  at  his  house,  put  him  to 
death  with  extreme  torture  and  torment,  the  better,  by  his  exam 
ple,  to  expres  the  pains  and  passions  of  his  Prometheus,  whom 
he  was  then  about  to  paint." 

BURTON'S  ANA.T.  OF  MEL. 


THERE  stood  an  unsold  captive  in  the  mart, 
A  gray-haired  and  majestical  old  man, 
Chained  to  a  pillar.     It  was  almost  night, 
And  the  last  seller  from  his  place  had  gone, 
And  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  of  a  dog 
Crunching  beneath  the  stall  a  refuse  bone, 
Or  the  dull  echo  from  the  pavement  rung, 
As  the  faint  captive  changed  his  weary  feet. 


PARRHASIUS. 


87 


He  had  stood  there  since  morning,  and  borne 

From  every  eye  in  Athens  the  cold  gaze 

Of  curious  scorn.     The  Jew  had  taunted  him 

For  an  Olynthian  slave.     The  buyer  came 

And  roughly  struck  his  palm  upon  his  breast, 

And  touched  his  unhealed  wounds,  and  with  a  sneer 

Passed  on,  and  when,  with  weariness  o'erspent, 

He  bowed  his  head  in  a  forgetful  sleep, 

Th'  inhuman  soldier  smote  him,  and  with  threats 

Of  torture  to  his  children  summoned  back 

The  ebbing  blood  into  his  pallid  face. 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  half  descended  sun 

Tipped  with  a  golden  fire  the  many  domes 

Of  Athens,  and  a  yellow  atmosphere 

Lay  rich  and  dusky  in  the  shaded  street 

Through  which  the  captive  gazed.    He  had  borne  up 

With  a  stout  heart  that  long  and  weary  day, 

Haughtily  patient  of  his  many  wrongs, 

But  now  he  was  alone,  and  from  his  nerves 

The  needless  strength  departed,  and  he  leaned 

Prone  on  his  massy  chain,  and  let  his  thoughts 

Throng  on  him  as  they  would.     Unmarked  of  him, 


88  PARRHASIUS. 

Parrhasius  at  the  nearest  pillar  stood, 

Gazing  upon  his  grief.    Th'  Athenian's  cheek 

Flush'd  as  he  measured  with  a  painter's  eye 

The  moving  picture.     The  abandon'd  limbs, 

Stained  with  the  oozing  blood,  were  laced  with  veins 

Swollen  to  purple  fulness  ;  the  gray  hair, 

Thin  and  disordered,  hung  about  his  eyes, 

And  as  a  thought  of  wilder  bitterness 

Rose  in  his  memory,  his  lips  grew  white, 

And  the  fast  workings  of  his  bloodless  face 

Told  what  a  tooth  of  fire  was  at  his  heart. 

*  *  *  * 

The  golden  light  into  the  painter's  room 
Streamed  richly,  and  the  hidden  colors  stole 
From  the  dark  pictures  radiantly  forth, 
And  in  the  soft  and  dewy  atmosphere 
Like  forms  and  landscapes  magical  they  lay. 
The  walls  were  hung  with  armor,  and  about 
In  the  dim  corners  stood  the  sculptured  forms 
Of  Cytheris,  and  Dian,  and  stern  Jove, 
And  from  the  casement  soberly  away 
Fell  the  grotesque  long  shadows,  full  and  true, 
And,  like  a  veil  of  filmy  mellowness, 
The  lint-specks  floated  in  the  twilight  air. 


PARRHASIUS.  by 

Parrhasius  stood,  gazing  forgetfully 
Upon  his  canvas.     There  Prometheus  lay, 
Chained  to  the  cold  rocks  of  Mount  Caucasus, 
The  vulture  at  his  vitals,  and  the  links 
Of  the  lame  Lemnian  festering  in  his  flesh, 
And  as  the  painter's  mind  felt  through  the  dim, 
Rapt  mystery,  and  plucked  the  shadows  forth 
With  its  far-reaching  fancy,  and  with  form 
And  color  clad  them,  his  fine,  earnest  eye, 

; 

Flashed  with  a  passionate  fire,  and  the  quick  curl 

Of  his  thin  nostril,  and  his  quivering  lip 

Were  like  the  winged  God's,  breathing  from  his  flight. 

"  Bring  me  the  captive  now  ! 
My  hands  feels  skilful,  and  the  shadows  lift 
From  my  waked  spirit  airily  and  swift, 

And  I  could  paint  the  bow 
Upon  the  bended  heavens — around  me  play 
Colors  of  such  divinity  to-day. 

Ha !  bind  him  on  his  back  ! 
Look  !   as  Prometheus  in  my  picture  here  ! 

— or  he  faints! — stand  with  the  cordial  near! 
8* 


90  PARRHASIUS. 

Now — bend  him  to  the  rack ! 
Press  down  the  poison'd  links  into  his  flesh ! 
And  tear  agape  that  healing  wound  afresh  ! 

So — let  him  writhe!     How  long 
Will  he  live  thus?     Quick,  my  good  pencil,  now! 
What  a  fine  agony  works  upon  his  brow  ! 

Ha  !  gray-haired,  and  so  strong  ! 
How  fearfully  he  stifles  that  short  moan  ! 
Gods !  if  I  could  but  paint  a  dying  groan  !  / 

4  Pity'  thee  !    So  I  do  ! 
I  pity  the  dumb  victim  at  (he  altar — 
But  does  the  rob'd  priest  for  his  pity  falter  ? 

I'd  rack  thee  though  I  knew 
A  thousand  lives  were  perishing  in  thine — 
What  were  ten  thousand  to  a  fame  like  mine  ? 

"Hereafter!"  Ay— hereafter! 
A  whip  to  keep  a  coward  to  his  track! 
What  gave  death  ever  from  his  kingdom  back 

To  check  the  sceptic's  laughter? 
Come  from  the  grave  to-morrow  with  that  story 
And  I  may  take  some  softer  path  to  glory. 


PARRHASIUS.  91 

No,  no,  old  man  !   we  die 

Ev'n  as  the  flowers,  and  we  shall  breathe  away 
Our  life  upon  the  chance  wind,  ev'n  as  they! 

Strain  well  thy  fainting  eye — 
For  when  that  bloodshot  quivering  is  o'er, 
The  light  of  heaven  will  never  reach  thee  more. 

Yet  there's  a  deathless  name ! 
A  spirit  that  the  smothering  vault  shall  spurn, 
And  like  a  steadfast  planet  mount  and  burn — 

And  though  its  crown  of  flame 
Consumed  my  brain  to  ashes  as  it  shone, 
By  all  the  fiery  stars  !  I'd  bind  it  on! 

Ay — though  it  bid  me  rifle 
My  heart's  last  fount  for  its  insatiate  thirst — 
Though  every  life-strung  nerve  be  maddened  first — 

Though  it  should  bid  me  stifle 
The  yearning  in  my  throat  for  my  sweet  child, 
And  taunt  its  mother  till  my  brain  went  wild — 

All — I  would  do  it  all — 
Sooner  than  die,  like  a  dull  worm,  to  rot — 


92  PARRHASIUS. 

Thrust  foully  into  the  earth  to  be  forgot! 
Oh  Heavens — but  I  appal 

Your  heart,  old  man!  forgive ha!  on  your  lives 

Let  him  not  faint ! — rack  him  till  he  revives ! 

Vain — vain — give  o'er  !     His  eye 
Glazes  apace.     He  does  not  feel  you  now — 
Stand  back!   I'll  paint  the  death-dew  on  his  brow! 

Gods  !  if  he  do  not  die 
But  for  one  moment — one — till  I  eclipse 
Conception  with  the  scorn  of  those  calm  lips  ! 

Shivering  !     Hark  !  he  mutters 
Brokenly  now — that  was  a  difficult  breath — 
Another?     Wilt  thou  never  come,  oh,  Death  ! 

Look  !  how  his  temple  flutters  ! 
Is  his  heart  still  ?     Aha  !   lift  up  his  head  ! 

He  shudders— gasps— Jove  help  him!— so— he's  dead." 

****** 

How  like  a  mounting  devil  in  the  heart 
Rules  the  unreined  ambition  !     Let  it  once 
But  play  the  monarch,  and  its  haughty  brow 
Glows  with  a  beauty  that  bewilders  thought 


PARRHASIUS. 

And  unthrones  peace  for  ever.     Putting  on 

The  very  pomp  of  Lucifer,  it  turns 

The  heart  to  ashes,  and  with  not  a  spring 

Left  in  the  bosom  for  the  spirit's  lip, 

We  look  upon  our  splendor  and  forget 

The  thirst  of  which  we  perish !     Yet  hath  life 

Many  a  falser  idol.     There  are  hopes 

Promising  well,  and  love-touch'd  dreams  for  some, 

And  passions,  many  a  wild  one,  and  fair  schemes 

For  gold  and  pleasure — yet  will  only  this 

Balk  not  the  soul — Ambition  only  gives 

Even  of  bitterness  a  beaker  full  ! 

Friendship  is  but  a  slow-awaking  dream, 

Troubled  at  best — Love  is  a  lamp  unseen, 

Burning  to  waste,  or,  if  its  light  is  found, 

Nursed  for  an  idle  hour,  then  idly  broken — 

Gain  is  a  grovelling  care,  and  Folly  tires, 

And  Quiet  is  a  hunger  never  fed — 

And  from  Love's  very  bosom,  and  from  Gain, 

Or  Folly,  or  a  Friend,  or  from  Repose, 

From  all  but  keen  Ambition,  will  the  soul 

Snatch  the  first  moment  of  forgetful  ness 

To  wander  like  a  restless  child  away. 


94  PARRHASIUS. 

Oh,  if  there  were  not  better  hopes  than  these — 
Were  there  no  palm  beyond  a  feverish  fame — 
If  the  proud  wealth  flung  back  upon  the  heart 
Must  canker  in  its  coffers — if  the  links 
Falsehood  hath  broken  will  unite  no  more — 
If  the  deep-yearning  love  that  hath  not  found 
Its  like  in  the  cold  world,  must  waste  in  tears — 
If  truth,  and  fervor,  and  devotedness, 

;  j 

Finding  no  worthy  altar,  must  return 

And  die  of  their  own  fulness — if  beyond 

The  grave  there  is  no  Heaven  in  whose  wide  air 

The  spirit  may  find  room,  and  in  the  love 

Of  whose  bright  habitants  the  lavish  heart 

May  spend  itself—  what  thrice-mocked  fools  are  we  ! 


95 


THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 


"  Love  borrows  greatly  from  opinion.     Pride  above  all  things 
strengthens  affection/' 


E.    L.    BULWER. 


HE  sat  and  read.     A  book  with  silver  clasps, 

All  gorgeous  with  illuminated  lines 

Of  gold  and  crimson,  lay  upon  a  frame 

Before  him.     'Twas  a  volume  of  old  time  ; 

And  in  it  were  fine  mysteries  of  the  stars 

Solved  with  a  cunning  wisdom,  and  strange  thoughts 

Half  prophecy,  half  poetry,  and  dreams 

Clearer  than  truth,  and  speculations  wild 

That  touched  the  secrets  of  your  very  soul, 

They  were  so  based  on  Nature.     With  a  face 

Glowing  with  thought,  he  pored  upon  the  book. 

The  cushions  of  an  Indian  loom  lay  soft 

Beneath  his  limbs,  and,  as  he  turned  the  page, 


96  THE    WIFE'S    APPEAL. 

The  sunlight,  streaming  through  the  curtain's  fold, 

Fell  with  a  rose-tint  on  his  jewell'd  hand, 

And  the  rich  woods  of  the  quaint  furniture 

Lay  deepening  their  veined  colours  in  the  sun, 

And  the  stained  marbles  on  the  pedestals 

Stood  like  a  silent  company.     Voltaire, 

With  an  infernal  sneer  upon  his  lips, 

And  Socrates,  with  godlike  human  love 

Stamped  on  his  countenance,  and  orators 

Of  times  gone  by  that  made  them,  and  old  bards, 

And  Medicean  Venus,  half  divine. 

Around  the  room  were  shelves  of  dainty  lore, 

And  rich  old  pictures  hung  upon  the  walls 

Where  the  slant  light  fell  on  them  ;  and  wrought  gems, 

Medallions,  rare  mosaics,  and  antiques 

From  Herculaneum,  the  niches  filled. 

And  on  a  table  of  enamel,  wrought 

With  a  lost  art  in  Italy,  there  lay 

Prints  of  fair  women,  and  engravings  rare, 

And  a  new  poem,  and  a  costly  toy, 

And  in  their  midst  a  massive  lamp  of  bronze 

Burning  sweet  spices  constantly.     Asleep 

Upon  the  carpet  couched  a  graceful  hound, 


THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL.  97 

Of  a  rare  breed,  and,  as  his  master  gave 
A  murmur  of  delight  at  some  sweet  line, 
He  raised  his  slender  head,  and  kept  his  eye 
Upon  him  till  the  pleasant  smile  had  passed 
From  his  mild  lips,  and  then  he  slept  again. 
The  light  beyond  the  crimson  folds  grew  dusk, 
And  the  clear  letters  of  the  pleasant  book 
Mingled  and  blurred,  and  the  lithe  hound  rose  up, 
And,  with  his  earnest  eye  upon  the  door, 
Listened  attentively.     It  came  as  wont — 
The  fall  of  a  light  foot  upon  the  stair — • 
And  the  fond  animal  sprang  out  to  meet 
His  mistress,  and  caress  the  ungloved  hand, 
He  seemed  to  know  was  beautiful.     She  stooped 
Gracefully  down  and  touched  his  silken  ears 
As  she  passed  in — then,  with  a  tenderness, 
Half  playful  and  half  serious,  she  knelt 
Upon  the  ottoman  and  pressed  her  lips 

Upon  her  husband's  forehead. 

***** 

She  rose  and  put  the  curtain-folds  aside 
From  the  high  window,  and  looked  out  upon 

The  shining  stars  in  silence.     "  Look  they  not 
9 


98 

Like  Paradise  to  thine  eye  ?"  he  said — 
But,  as  he  spoke,  a  tear  fell  through  the  light, 
And  starting  from  his  seat  he  folded  her 
Close  to  his  heart,  and,  with  unsteady  voice, 
Asked  if  she  was  not  happy.     A  faint  smile 
Broke  through  her  tears ;  and  pushing  off  the  hair 
From  his  fine  forehead,  she  held  back  his  head 
With  her  white  hand,  and,  gazing  on  his  face, 
Gave  to  her  heart  free  utterance  : — 

Happy  ? — yes,  dearest ! — blest 
Beyond  the  limit  of  my  wildest  dream — 
Too  bright,  indeed,  my  blessings  ever  seem  ; 

There  lives  not  in  my  breast, 
One  of  Hope's  promises  by  Love  unkept, 
And  yet — forgive  me,  Ernest — I  have  wept. 

How  shall  I  speak  of  sadness, 
And  seem  not  thankless  to  my  God  and  thee  ? 
How  can  the  lightest  wish  but  seem  to  be 

The  very  whim  of  madness  1 
Yet,  oh,  there  is  a  boon  thy  love  beside — 
And  I  will  ask  it  of  thee — in  my  pride ! 


THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL.  99 

List,  while  my  boldness  lingers  ! 
If  thou  hadst  won  yon  twinkling  star  to  hear  thee — 
If  thou  couldst  bid  the  rainbow's  curve  bend  near 
thee — 

If  thou  couldst  charm  thy  fingers 
To  weave  for  thee  the  Sunset's  tent  of  gold — 
Wouldst  in  thine  own  heart  treasure  it  untold  ? 

If  thou  hadst  Ariel's  gift, 
To  course  the"  veined  metals  of  the  earth — 
If  thou  couldst  wind  a  fountain  to  its  birth — 

If  thou  couldst  know  the  drift 
Of  the  lost  cloud  that  sailed  into  the  sky — 
Wouldst  keep  it  for  thine  own  unanswered  eye  1 

It  is  thy  life  and  mine  ! — 
Thou  in  thyself,  and  I  in  thee,  misprison 
Gifts  like  a  circle  of  bright  stars  unrisen — 

For  thou  whose  mind  should  shine 
Eminent  as  a  planet's  light,  art  here — 
Moved  with  the  starting  of  a  woman's  tear  ! 

I  have  told  o'er  thy  powers 
Jn  secret,  as  a  miser  tells  his  gold  ; 


100  THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 

I  know  thy  spirit  calm,  and  true,  and  bold : 

I've  watched  thy  lightest  hours, 
And  seen  thee,  in  the  wildest  flush  of  youth 
Touched  with  the  instinct  ravishment  of  truth. 

Thou  hast  the  secret  strange 
To  read  that  hidden  book,  the  human  heart ; 
Thou  hast  the  ready  writer's  practised  art ; 

Thou  hast  the  thought  to  range 
The  broadest  circles  Intellect  hath  ran — 
And  thou  art  God's  best  work — an  honest  man  t 

And  yet  thou  slumberest  here 
Like  a  caged  bird  that  never  knew  its  pinions, 
And  others  track  in  glory  the  dominions 

Where  thou  hast  not  thy  peer — 
Setting  their  weaker  eyes  unto  the  sun, 
And  plucking  honor  that  thou  shouldst  have  won. 

Oh,  if  thou  lov'dst  me  ever, 
Ernest,  my  husband  !     If  th'  idolatry 
That  lets  go  heaven  to  fling  its  all  on  thee — 

If  to  dismiss  thee  never 


THE  WIFE'S  APPEAL.  10 1 

In  dream  or  prayer,  have  given  me  aught  to  claim — 
Heed  me — oh,  heed  me  !  and  awake  to  Fame  ! 

Her  lips 

Closed  with  an  earnest  sweetness,  and  she  sat 
Gazing  into  his  eyes  as  if  her  look 
Searched  their  dark  orbs  for  answer.    The  warm  blood 
Into  his  temples  mounted,  and  across 
His  countenance  the  flush  of  passionate  thoughts 
Passed  with  irresolute  quickness.     He  rose  up 
And  paced  the  dim  room  rapidly  awhile, 
Calming  his  troubled  mind,  and  then  he  came 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  her  orbed  brow, 
And  in  a  voice  of  heavenly  tenderness 
Answered  her : — 

Before  I  knew  thee,  Mary, 
Ambition  was  my  angel.     I  did  hear 
For  ever  its  witch'd  voices  in  mine  ear ; 

My  days  were  visionary, 
My  nights  were  like  the  slumbers  of  the  mad, 
?  And  every  dream  swept  o'er  me  glory-clad. 
9* 


102 


I  read  the  burning  letters 
Of  warlike  pomp,  on  History's  page,  alone ; 
I  counted  nothing  the  struck  widow's  moan  ; 

I  heard  no  clank  of  fetters  ; 
I  only  felt  the  trumpet's  stirring  blast, 
And  lean-eyed  Famine  stalked  unchallenged  past ! 

I  heard  with  veins  of  lightning, 
The  utterance  of  the  Statesman's  word  of  power — 
Binding  and  loosing  nations  in  an  hour — 

But  while  my  eye  was  brightening, 
A  masked  detraction  breathed  upon  his  fame, 
And  a  curst  serpent  slimed  his  written  name. 

The  Poet  rapt  mine  ears 
With  the  transporting  music  that  he  sung. 
With  fibres  from  his  life  his  lyre  he  strung, 

And  bathed  the  world  in  tears — 
And  then  he  turned  away  to  muse  apart, 
And  scorn  stole  after  him  and  broke  his  heart  I 

Yet  here  and  there  I  saw 
One  who  did  set  the  world  at  calm  defiance, 


And  press  right  onward  with  a  bold  reliance  ; 

And  he  did  seem  to  awe 
The  very  shadows  pressing  on  his  breast, 
And,  with  a  strong  heart,  held  himself  at  rest. 

And  then  I  looked  again, 
And  he  had  shut  the  door  upon  the  crowd, 
And  on  his  face  he  lay  and  groaned  aloud- 
Wrestling  with  hidden  pain  ; 
And  in  her  chamber  sat  his  wife  in  tears, 
And  his  sweet  babes  grew  sad  with  whispered  fears- 

And  so  I  turn'd  sick-hearted 
From  the  bright  cup  away,  and,  in  my  sadness, 
Searched  mine  own  bosom  for  some  spring  of  glad 
ness  ; 

And  lo  !   a  fountain  started 
Whose  waters  ev'n  in  death  flow  calm  and  fast, 
And  my  wild  fever-thirst  was  slaked  at  last. 

And  then  I  met  thee,  Mary, 
And  felt  how  love  may  into  fulness  pour, 
Like  light  into  a  fountain  running  o'er  : 


104  THE    WIFE'S   APPEAL, 

And  I  did  hope  to  vary 
My  life  but  with  surprises  sweet  as  this — 
A  dream,  but  for  thy  waking  filled  with  bliss. 

Yet  now  I  feel  my  spirit 
Bitterly  stirred,  and — -nay,  lift  up  thy  brow ! 
It  is  thine  own  voice  echoing  to  thee  now, 

And  thou  didst  pray  to  hear  it — 
I  must  unto  my  work  and  my  stern  hours ! 

Take  from  my  room  thy  harp,  and  books  and  flowers ! 

***** 

*  *  *  *        A  year— 

And  in  his  room  again  he  sat  alone. 
His  frame  had  lost  its  fulness  in  that  time  ; 
His  manly  features  had  grown  sharp  and  thin, 
And  from  his  lips  the  constant  smile  had  faded. 
Wild  fires  had  burned  the  languor  from  his  eye  : 
The  lids  looked  fevered,  and  the  brow  was  bent 
With  an  habitual  frown.     He  was  much  changed. 
His  chin  was  resting  on  his  clenched  hand, 
And  with  his  foot  he  beat  upon  the  floor 
Unconsciously  the  time  of  a  sad  tune. 
Thoughts  of  the  past  preyed  on  him  bitterly. 


105 


He  had  won  power  and  held  it.     He  had  walked 
Steadily  upward  in  the  eye  of  Fame, 
And  kept  his  truth  unsullied — but  his  home 
Had  been  invaded  by  envenomed  tongues  ; 
His  wife — his  spotless  wife — had  been  assailed 
By  slander,  and  his  child  had  grown  afraid 
To  come  to  him — his  manner  was  so  stern. 
He  could  not  speak  beside  his  own  hearth  freely. 
His  friends  were  half  estranged,  and  vulgar  men 
Presumed  upon  their  services  and  grew 
Familiar  with  him.     He'd  small  time  to  sleep, 
And  none  to  pray  ;  and,  with  his  heart  in  fetters, 
He  bore  deep  insults  silently,  and  bowed 
Respectfully  to  men  who  knew  he  loathed  them  ! 
And  when  his  heart  was  eloquent  with  truth, 
And  love  of  country  and  honest  zeal 
Burned  for  expression,  he  could  find  no  words 
They  would  not  misinterpret  with  their  lies. 
What  were  his  many  honors  to  him  now  ? 
The  good  half  doubted,  falsehood  was  so  strong — 
His  home  was  hateful  with  its  cautious  fears — 
His  wife  lay  trembling  on  his  very  breast 
Frighted  with  calumny  ! And  this  is  FAME* 


106 


THE  SCHOLAR  OF  THEBET  BEN  KHORA1V 


"lufluentia  coeli  morbum  hunc  movet,  interdum  omnibus 
aliis  amotis." 

MELANCTHON    DE   ANIMA,    CAP.    DE  HUMORIBUS. 


NIGHT  in  Arabia.     An  hour  ago, 
Pale  Dian  had  descended  from  the  sky, 
Flinging  her  cestus  out  upon  the  sea, 
And  at  their  watches  now  the  solemn  stars 
Stood  vigilant  and  lone  ;  and,  dead  asleep, 
With  not  a  shadow  moving  on  its  breast, 
The  breathing  earth  lay  in  its  silver  dew, 

A  famous  Arabian  astrologer,  who  is  said  to  have  spent 
forty  years  in  discovering  the  motion  of  the  eighth  sphere.  He 
had  a  scholar,  a  young  Bedouin  Arab,  who,  with  a  singular  pas 
sion  for  knowledge,  abandoned  his  wandering  tribe,  and,  apply 
ing  himself  too  closely  to  astrology,  lost  his  reason  and  died, 


THE    SCHOLAR    OF    TIIEBET    BEN    KHORAT.       107 

And,  trembling  on  their  myriad  viewless  wings, 

TV  imprisoned  odors  left  the  flowers  to  dream 

And  stole  away  upon  the  yielding  air. 

Ben  Khorat's  tower  stands  shadowy  and  tall 

In  Mecca's  loneliest  street ;  and  ever  there, 

When  night  is  at  the  deepest,  burns  his  lamp 

As  constant  as  the  Cynosure,  and  forth 

From  his  looped  window  stretch  the  brazen  tubes, 

Pointing  forever  at  the  central  star 

Of  that  dim  nebula  just  lifting  now 

Over  Mount  Arafat.     The  sky  to-night 

Is  of  a  clearer  blackness  than  is  wont, 

And  far  within  its  depths  the  colored  stars* 

*  "  Even  to  the  naked  eye,  the  stars  appear  of  palpably  differ 
ent  colors ;  but  when  viewed  with  a  prismatic  glass,  they  may 
be  very  accurately  classed  into  the  red,  the  yellow,  the  brilliant 
white,  the  dull  white  and  the  anomalous.  This  is  true  also  of 
the  planets,  which  shine  by  reflected  light,  and  of  course  the 
difference  of  color  must  be  supposed  to  arise  from  their  differ 
ent  powers  to  absorb  and  reflect  the  rays  of  the  sun.  The 
original  composition  of  the  stars,  and  the  different  dispersive 
powers  of  their  different  atmospheres,  may  be  supposed  to  ac 
count  also  for  this  phenomenon," 


108  THE    SCHOLAR    OF 

Sparkle  like  gems — capricious  Antares* 

Flushing  and  paling  in  the  Southern  arch, 

And  azure  Lyra,vlike  a  woman's  eye, 

Burning  with  soft  blue  lustre}  and  away 

Over  the  desert  the  bright  Polar-star, 

White  as  a  flashing  icicle,  and  here, 

Hung  like  a  lamp  above  th'  Arabian  sea, 

Mars  with  his  dusky  glow,  and,  fairer  yet, 

Mild  Sirius,!  tinct  with  dewy  violet, 

Set  like  a  flower  upon  the  breast  of  Eve  ; 

And  in  the  zenith  the  sweet  Pleiades,f 

(Alas — that  ev'n  a  star  may  pass  from  heaven 

And  not  be  miss'd  !) — the  linked  Pleiades 

Undimmed  are  there,  though  from  the  sister  band 

The  fairest  has  gone  down,  and,  South  away, 

Hirundojl  with  its  little  company, 

*  This  star  exhibits  a  peculiar  quality — a  rapid  and  beautiful 
shange  in  the  color  of  its  light;  every  alternate  twinkling  being 
of  an  intense  reddish  crimson  color,  and  the  answering  one  of  a 
brilliant  white. 

t  When  seen  with  a  prismatic  glass,  Sirius  shows  a  large  brush 
of  exceedingly  beautiful  violet  rays. 

|  The  Pleiades  are  vertical  in  Arabia. 

||  An  Arabic  constellation  placed  instead  of  the  Piscis  Australis, 
because  the  swallow  arrives  in  Arabia  about  the  time  of  the  he- 
.iacal  rising  of  the  Fishes. 


THEBET     BEN     KHORAT.  109 

And  white-browed  Vesta,  lamping  on  her  path 
Lonely  and  planet-calm,  and,  all  through  heaven, 
Articulate  almost,  they  troop  to  night, 
Like  unrob'd  angels  in  a  prophet's  trance. 

Ben  Khorat  knelt  before  his  telescope,* 
Gazing  with  earnest  stillness  on  the  stars. 
The  gray  hairs,  struggling  from  his  turban  folds, 
Played  with  the  entering  wind  upon  his  cheeks, 
And  on  his  breast  his  venerable  beard 
With  supernatural  whiteness  loosely  fell. 
The  black  flesh  swelled  about  his  sandal  thongs, 
Tight  with  his  painful  posture,  and  his  lean 
And  withered  fingers  to  his  knees  were  clenched, 
And  the  thin  lashes  of  his  straining  eye 
Lay  with  unwinking  closeness  to  the  lens, 
Stiffened  with  tense  up-turning.     Hour  by  hour, 
Till  the  stars  melted  in  the  flush  of  morn, 
The  old  astrologer  knelt  moveless  there, 
Ravished  past  pain  with  the  bewildering  spheres, 

*  An  anachronism,  the  author  is  aware.  The  Telescope 
was  not  invented  for  a  century  or  two  after  the  time  oi  Ben 
Khorat. 

10 


110  THE     SCHOLAR     OP 

And,  hour  by  hour,  with  the  same  patient  thought, 
Pored  his  pale  scholar  on  the  characters 
Of  Chaldee  writ,  or,  as  his  gaze  grew  dim 
With  weariness,  the  dark-eyed  Arab  laid 
His  head  upon  the  window  and  looked  forth 
Upon  the  heavens  awhile,  until  the  dews 
And  the  soft  beauty  of  the  silent  night 
Cooled  his  flushed  eyelids,  and  then  patiently 
He  turned  unto  his  constant  task  again. 

The  sparry  glinting  of  the  Morning  Star 
Shot  through  the  leaves  of  a  majestic  palm 
Fringing  Mount  Arafat,  and,  as  it  caught 
The  eye  of  the  rapt  scholar,  he  arose 
And  clasped  the  volume  with  an  eager  haste, 
And  as  the  glorious  planet  mounted  on, 
Melting  her  way  into  the  upper  sky, 
He  breathlessly  gazed  on  her  : — 

"  Star  of  the  silver  ray ! 
Bright  as  a  god,  but  punctual  as  a  slave — 
What  spirit  the  eternal  canon  gave 

That  bends  thee  to  thy  way  ? 


THEBET     BEN     KHORAT.  Ill 

What  is  the  soul  that  on  thine  arrowy  light 
Is  walking  earth  and  heaven  in  pride  to-night  ? 

We  know  when  thou  wilt  soar 
Over  the  mount — thy  change,  and  place,  and 

time — 
'Tis  written  in  the  Chaldee's  mystic  rhyme 

As  'twere  a  priceless  lore ! 
I  knew  as  much  in  my  Bedouin  garb — 
Coursing  the  desert  on  my  flying  barb  ! 

How  oft  amid  the  tents 
Upon  Sahara's  sands  I've  walked  alone, 
Waiting  all  night  for  thee,  resplendent  one  ! 

With  what  magnificence, 
In  the  last  watches,  to  my  thirsting  eye, 
Thy  passionate  beauty  flushed  into  the  sky  ! 

Oh,  God !  how  flew  my  soul 
Out  to  thy  glory — upward  on  thy  ray — 
Panting  as  thou  ascendedst  on  thy  way, 

As  if  thine  own  control — 
This  searchless  spirit  that  I  cannot  find — 
Had  set  its  radiant  law  upon  my  mind  ! 


112  THE     SCHOLAR     OF 

More  than  all  stars  in  heaven 
I  felt  thee  in  my  heart !  my  love  became 
A  frenzy,  and  consumed  me  with  its  flame. 

Ay,  in  the  desert  even — 
My  dark-eyed  A  bra  coursing  at  my  side — 
The  star,  not  Abra,  was  my  spirit's  bride ! 

My  Abra  is  no  more ! 
My  '  desert-bird'  is  in  a  stranger's  stall — 
My  tribe,  my  tent — I  sacrificed  them  all 

For  this  heart-wasting  lore  ! — 
Yet  than  all  these  the  thought  is  sweeter  far — 
Thou  wert  ascendant  at  my  birth,,  bright  star  ! 

The  Chaldee  calls  me  thine — 
And  invthis  breast,  that  I  must  rend  to  be 
A  spirit  upon  wings  of  light  like  thee, 

I  feel  that  thou  art  mine  ! 

Oh,  God  !  that  these  dull  fetters  would  give  way 
And  let  me  forth  to  track  thy  silver  ray!" 

*  *  *  Ben  Khorat  rose 

And  silently  looked  forth  upon  the  East 


THEBET     BEN     KHORAT.  113 

The  dawn  was  stealing  up  into  the  sky 

On  its  gray  feet,  the  stars  grew  dim  apace, 

And  faded,  till  the  Morning  Star  alone, 

Soft  as  a  molten  diamond's  liquid  fire, 

Burned  in  the  heavens.     The  mom  grew  freshlier — 

The  upper  clouds  were  faintly  touched  with  gold, 

The  fan-palms  rustled  in  the  early  air, 

Daylight  spread  cool  and  broadly  to  the  hills, 

And  still  the  star  was  visible,  and  still 

The  young  Bedouin  with  a  straining  eye 

Drank  its  departing  light  into  his  soul. 

It  faded — melted — and  the  fiery  rim 

Of  the  clear  sun  came  up,  and  painfully 

The  passionate  scholar  pressed  upon  his  eyes 

His  dusky  fingers,  and  with  limbs  as  weak 

As  a  sick  child's,  turned  fainting  to  his  couch, 

And  slept.  *  *  * 

II, 

It  was  the  morning  watch  once  more. 
The  clouds  were  drifting  rapidly  above, 
And  dim  and  fast  the  glimmering  stars  flew  through, 
And  as  the  fitful  gust  soughed  mournfully, 
10* 


114  THE      SCHOLAR     OF 

£ 

The  shutters  shook,  and  on  the  sloping  roof 

Plashed  heavily  large  single  drops  of  rain, 

And  all  was  still  again.     Ben  Khorat  sat 

By  the  dim  lamp,  and,  while  his  scholar  slept, 

Pored  on  the  Chaldee  wisdom.     At  his  feet, 

Stretched  on  a  pallet,  lay  the  Arab  boy, 

Muttering  fast  in  his  unquiet  sleep, 

And  working  his  dark  fingers  in  his  palms 

Convulsively.     His  sallow  lips  were  pale, 

And,  as  they  moved,  his  teeth  showed  ghastly  through, 

White  as  a  charnel  bone,  and  closely  drawn 

Upon  his  sunken  eyes,  as  if  to  press 

Some  frightful  image  from  the  bloodshot  balls. 

His  lids  a  moment  quivered,  and  again 

Relaxed,  half  open,  in  a  calmer  sleep. 

Bon  Khorat  gazed  upon  the  dropping  sands 
Of  the  departing  hour.     The  last  white  grain 
Fell  through,  and  with  the  tremulous  hand  of  age 
The  old  astrologer  reversed  the  glass  ; 
And,  as  the  voiceless  monitor  went  on, 
Wasting  and  wasting  with  the  precious  hour, 
He  looked  upon  it  with  a  moving  lip, 


THEBET     BEN     KHORAT.  115 

And,  starting,  turned  his  gaze  upon  the  heavens. 
Cursing  the  clouds  impatiently. 

'"Tistime!" 

Muttered  the  dying  scholar,  and  he  dashed 
The  tangled  hair  from  his  black  eyes  away, 
And,  seizing  on  Ben  Khorat's  mantle-folds, 
He  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  falling  prone 
Upon  the  window-ledge,  gazed  steadfastly 
Into  the  East : — 

"  There  is  a  cloud  between — 
She  sits  this  instant  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  that  dusk  veil  hides  all  her  glory  now — 

Yet  floats  she  as  serene 

Into  the  heavens ! Oh,  God  !  that  even  so 

I  could  o'ermount  my  spirit-cloud,  and  go  ! 

The  cloud  begins  to  drift ! 
Aha !  Fling  open  !  'tis  the  star — the  sky  ! 
Touch  me,  immortal  mother  !  and  I  fly  ! 

Wider  !  thou  cloudy  rift ! 

Let  through  ! — such  glory  should  have  radiant  room  ! 
Let  through  ! — a  star-child  on  its  light  goes  home  ! 


116  THE     SCHOLAR     OF 

Speak  to  me,  brethren  bright ! 
Ye  who  are  floating  in  these  living-  beams ! 
Ye  who  have  come  to  me  in  starry  dreams  ! 

Ye  who  have  winged  the  light 
Of  our  bright  mother  with  its  thoughts  of  flame — 
— (I  knew  it  passed  through  spirits  as  it  came) — 

Tell  me  !  what  power  have  ye  ? 
What  are  the  heights  ye  reach  upon  your  wings  ? 
What  know  ye  of  the  myriad  wondrous  things 

I  perish  but  to  see  ? 

Are  ye  thought-rapid  ? — Can  ye  fly  as  far — 
As  instant  as  a  thought,  from  star  to  star  1 

Where  has  the  Pleiad  gone  ? 
Where  have  all  missing  stars*  found  light  and 
home  1 


*  '  Missing  stars'  are  often  spoken  of  in  the  old  books  of  as 
tronomy.  Hipparchus  mentions  one  that  appeared  and  vanish 
ed  very  suddenly ;  and  in  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century 
Kepler  discovered  a  new  star  near  the  heel  of  the  right  foot  of 
Serpentarius.  "  so  bright  and  sparkling  that  it  exceeded  any 
tiling  he  had  ever  seen  before."  He  "  took  notice  that  it  was 
every  moment  changing  into  some  of  the  colors  of  the  rainbow, 


THEBET     BEN     KHORAT.  117 

Who  bids  the  Stella  Mira*  go  and  come  ? 

Why  sits  the  Pole-star  lone  ? 
And  why,  like  banded  sisters,  through  the  air 
Go  in  bright  troops  the  constellations  fair  ? 

Ben  Khorat !  dost  thou  mark  ? 
The  star !  the  star!     By  heavens,  the  cloud  drifts 

o'er ! 
Gone — and  I  live !  nay — will  my  heart  beat  more  ? 

Look  !  master !  'tis  all  dark  ! 

Not  a  clear  speck  in  heaven  ! — my  eye-balls  smother  1 
Break  through  the  clouds  once  more  !    oh,  starry 
mother ! 

I  will  lie  down  !    Yet,  stay, 
The  rain  beats  out  the  odour  from  the  gums, 
And  strangely  soft  to-night  the  spice-wind  comes ! 

I  am  a  child  alway 

except  when  it  was  near  the  horizon,  when  it  was  generally 
white."  It  disappeared  the  following  year,  and  has  not  been 
seen  since. 

*  A  wonderful  star  in  the  neck  of  the  Whale,  discovered  by 
Fabricius  in  the  fifteenth  century.  It  appears  and  disappears 
seven  times  in  six  years,  and  continues  in  the  greatest  lustre  for 
fifteen  days  together, 


118  THE     SCHOLAR     OF 

When  it  is  on  my  forehead  !     Abra  sweet ! 
Would  I  were  in  the  desert  at  thy  feet ! 

My  barb  !  my  glorious  steed  ! 
Methinks  my  soul  would  mount  upon  its  track 
More  fleetly,  could  I  die  upon  thy  back ! 

How  would  thy  thrilling  speed 
Quicken  my  pulse  ! — Oh,  Allah !  I  get  wild  ! 
Would  that  I  were  once  more  a  desert-child  1 

Nay — nay — I  had  forgot ! 

My  mother  !  my  star  mother  ! — Ha  !   my  breath 
Stifles! more  air! BenKhorat!  this  is — death! 

Touch  me  ! 1  feel  you  not ! 

Dying! — Farewell!  goodmaster! — room!  more  room! 
Abra  !  I  loved  thee  !  star — bright  star !   I come  !" 

How  idly  of  the  human  heart  we  speak, 
Giving  it  gods  of  clay  !     How  worse  than  vain 
Is  the  school  homily,  that  Eden's  fruit 
Cannot  be  plucked  too  freely  from  "  the  tree 
Of  good  and  evil."     Wisdom  sits  alone, 
Topmost  in  heaven  ; — she  is  its  light — its  God  ! 


THE  BET     BEN     KHORAT.  119 

And  in  the  heart  of  man  she  sits  as  high — 
Though  grovelling  eyes  forget  her  oftentimes, 
Seeing  but  this  world's  idols.     The  pure  mind 
Sees  her  for  ever  :  and  in  youth  we  come 
Filled  with  her  sainted  ravishment,  and  kneel, 
Worshipping  God  through  her  sweet  altar-fires, 
And  then  is  knowledge  "  good."     We  come  too  oft — 
The  heart  grows  proud  with  fulness,  and  we  soon 
Look  with  licentious  freedom  on  the  maid 
Throned  in  celestial  beauty.     There  she  sits, 
Robed  in  her  soft  and  seraph  loveliness, 
Instructing  and  forgiving,  and  we  gaze 
Until  desire  grows  wild,  and,  with  our  hands 
Upon  her  very  garments,  are  struck  down, 
Blasted  with  a  consuming  fire  from  heaven ! 
Yet,  oh !  how  full  of  music  from  her  lips 
Breathe  the  calm  tones  of  wisdom  !     Human  praise 
Is  sweet  till  envy  mars  it,  and  the  touch 
Of  new-won  gold  stirs  up  the  pulses  well, 
And  woman's  love,  if  in  a  beggar's  lamp 
'T  would  burn,  might  light  us  cheerly  through  the  world ; 
But  Knowledge  hath  a  far  more  'wildering  tongue, 
And  she  will  stoop  and  lead  you  to  the  stars, 


120  THE     SCHOLAR     OF,    ETC. 

And  witch  you  with  her  mysteries,  till  gold 
Is  a  forgotten  dross,  and  power  and  fame 
Toys  of  an  hour,  and  woman's  careless  love, 
Light  as  the  breath  that  breaks  it.     He  who  binds 
His  soul  to  knowledge  steals  the  key  of  heaven — 
But  'tis  a  bitter  mockery  that  the  fruit 
May  hang  within  his  reach,  and  when,  with  thirst 
Wrought  to  a  maddening  frenzy,  he  would  taste — 
It  burns  his  lips  to  ashes ! 


121 


CHRIST'S  ENTRANCE  INTO  JERUSALEM. 


HE  sat  upon  the  ass's  colt  and  rode 
Toward  Jerusalem.     Beside  him  walked 
Closely  and  silently  the  faithful  twelve, 
And  on  before  him  went  a  multitude 
Shouting  Hosannas,  and  with  eager  hands 
Strewing  their  garments  thickly  in  his  way. 
Th'  unbroken  foal  beneath  him  gently  stepp'd, 
Tame  as  its  patient  dam ;  and  as  the  song 
Of  "  welcome  to  the  Son  of  David"  burst 
Forth  from  a  thousand  children,  and  the  leaves 
Of  the  wav'd  branches  touch'd  its  silken  ears, 
It  turned  its  wild  eye  for  a  moment  back, 
And  then,  subdued  by  an  invisible  hand, 
Meekly  trode  onward  with  its  slender  feet. 

The  dew's  last  sparkle  from  the  grass  bad  gone 
11 


122  CHRIST'S    ENTRANCE 

As  he  rode  Up  Mount  Olivet.     The  woods 

Threw  their  cool  shadows  freshly  to  the  west, 

And  the  light  foal,  with  quick  and  toiling  step 

And  head  bent  low,  kept  its  unslacken'd  way 

Till  its  soft  mane  was  lifted  by  the  wind 

Sent  ofer  the  mount  from  Jordan.     As  he  reach'd 

The  summit's  breezy  pitch,  the  Saviour  rais'd 

His  calm  blue  eye — there  stood  Jerusulem ! 

Eagerly  he  bent  forward,  and  beneath 

His  mantle's  passive  folds,  a  bolder  line 

Than  the  wont  slightness  of  his  perfect  limbs 

Betray'd  the  swelling  fulness  of  his  heart. 

There  stood  Jerusalem  !     How  fair  she  look'd — 

The  silver  sun  on  all  her  palaces, 

And  her  fair  daughters  mid  the  golden  spires 

Tending  their  terrace  flowers,  and  Kedron's  stream 

Lacing  the  meadows  with  its  silver  band, 

And  wreathing  its  mist-mantle  on  the  sky 

With  the  morn's  exhalations.     There  she  stood — 

Jerusalem — the  city  of  his  love, 

Chosen  from  all  the  earth  ;  Jerusalem — 

That  knew  him  not — and  had  rejected  him  ; 

Jerusalem — for  whom  he  came  to  die  ! 


INTO     JERUSALEM.  123 

The  shouts  redoubled  from  a  thousand  lips 

At  the  fair  sight,  the  children  leap'd  and  sang 

Louder  Hosannas  ;  the  clear  air  was  filled 

With  odor  from  the  trampled  olive  leaves — 

— But  "  Jesus  wept."     The  lov'd  disciple  saw 

His  Master's  tears,  and  closer  to  his  side 

He  came  with  yearning  looks,  and  on  his  neck 

The  Saviour  leant  with  heavenly  tenderness, 

And  mourn'd — "  How  oft,  Jerusalem  !   would  I 

Have  gather'd  you,  as  gathereth  a  hen 

Her  brood  beneath  her  wings — but  ye  would  not  !n 

He  thought  not  of  the  death  that  he  should  die — 
He  thought  not  of  the  thorns  he  knew  must  pierce 
His  forehead — of  the  buffet  on  the  cheek — 
The  scourge,  the  mocking  homage,  the  foul  scorn! — 

Gethsemane  stood  out  beneath  his  eye 

Clear  in  the  morning  sun,  and  there,  he  knew, 

While  they  who  "  could  not  watch  with  him  one 

hour" 

Were  sleeping,  he  should  sweat  great  drops  of  blood, 
Praying  the  "  cup  might  pass."     And  Golgotha 


124       CHRIST'S    ENTRANCE,    ETC. 

Stood  bare  and  desert  by  the  city  wall, 
And  in  its  midst,  to  his  prophetic  eye, 
Rose  the  rough  cross,  and  its  keen  agonies 
Were  number'd  all — the  nails  were  in  his  feet — 
Th'  insulting  sponge  was  pressing  on  his  lips — 
The  blood  and  water  gushing  from  his  side — 
The  dizzy  faintness  swimming  in  his  brain — 
And,  while  his  own  disciples  fled  in  fear, 
A  world's  death-agonies  all  mix'd  in  his  ! 
Ay  ! — he  forgot  all  this.     He  only  saw 
Jerusalem, — the  chos'n — the  lov'd — the  lost! 
He  only  felt  that  for  her  sake  his  life 
Was  vainly  giv'n,  and  in  his  pitying  love, 
The  sufferings  that  would  clothe  the  Heavens  in 

black, 
Were  quite  forgotten. 

Was  there  ever  love, 
In  earth  or  heaven  equal  unto  this  ? 


125 


THE  HEALING  OF  THE  DAUGHTER  OF  JAIRUS.* 


FRESHLY  the  cool  breath  of  the  coming  eve 
Stole  through  the  lattice,  and  the  dying  girl 
Felt  it  upon  her  forehead.     She  had  lain 
Since  the  hot  noontide  in  a  breathless  trance, 
Her  thin  pale  fingers  clasp'd  within  the  hand 
Of  the  heart-broken  Ruler,  and  her  breast, 
Like  the  dead  marble,  white  and  motionless. 
The  shadow  of  a  leaf  lay  on  her  lips, 
And  as  it  stirr'd  with  the  awakening  wind, 
The  dark  lids  lifted  from  her  languid  eyes, 
And  her  slight  fingers  mov'd,  and  heavily 
She  turn'd  upon  her  pillow.     He  was  there — 
The  same  lov'd,  tireless  watcher,  and  she  look'd 
Into  his  face  until  her  sight  grew  dim 

*  Luke  viii.  54,  55. 
11* 


126  THE      HEALING     OF 

With  the  fast-falling  tears,  and,  with  a  sigh 

Of  tremulous  weakness,  murmuring  his  name, 

She  gently  drew  his  hands  upon  her  lips, 

And  kiss'd  it  as  she  wept.     The  old  man  sunk 

Upon  his  knees,  and  in  the  drapery 

Of  the  rich  curtains  buried  up  his  face — 

And  when  the  twilight  fell,  the  silken  folds 

Stirr'd  with  his  prayer,  but  the  slight  hand  he  held 

Had  ceased  its  pressure,  and  he  could  not  hear 

In  the  dead,  utter  silence,  that  a  breath 

Came  through  her  nostrils,  and  her  temples  gave 

To  his  nice  touch  no  pulse,  and  at  her  mouth 

He  held  the  lightest  curl  that  on  her  neck 

Lay  with  a  mocking  beauty,  and  his  gaze 

Ach'd  with  its  deathly  stillness.  .          *  %   • 

.  .  .  It  was  night — 

And  softly  o'er  the  Sea  of  Galilee 
Danced  the  breeze-ridden  ripples  to  the  shore, 
Tipp'd  with  the  silver  sparkles  of  the  moon. 
The  breaking  waves  play'd  low  upon  the  beach 
Their  constant  music,  but  the  air  beside 
Was  still  as  starlight,  and  the  Saviour's  voice, 


THE     DAUGHTER     OF     JAIRUS.          127 

In  its  rich  cadences  unearthly  sweet, 
Seemed  like  some  just-born  harmony  in  the  air, 
Wak'd  by  the  power  of  wisdom.     On  a  rock, 
With  the  broad  moonlight  falling  on  his  brow, 
He  stood  and  taught  the  people.     At  his  feet 
Lay  his  small  scrip,  and  pilgrim's  scallop-shell, 
And  staff  for  they  had  waited  by  the  sea 
Till  he  came  o'er  from  Gadarene,  and  pray'd 
For  his  wont  teachings  as  he  came  to  land. 
His  hair  was  parted  meekly  on  his  brow, 
And  the  long  curls  from  off  his  shoulders  fell 
As  he  leaned  forward  earnestly,  and  still 
The  same  calm  cadence,  passionless  and  deep, 
And  in  his  looks  the  same  mild  majesty, 
And  in  his  mien  the  sadness  mix'd  with  power, 
Fill'd  them  with  love  and  wonder.     Suddenly, 
As  on  his  words  entrancedly  they  hung, 
The  crowd  divided,  and  among  them  stood 
JAIRUS  THE  RULER.     With  his  flowing  robe 
Gather'd  in  haste  about  his  loins,  he  came, 
And  fix'd  his  eyes  on  Jesus.     Closer  drew 
The  twelve  disciples  to  their  Master's  side, 
And  silently  the  people  shrunk  away, 


128  THE      HEALING     OF 

And  left  the  haughty  Ruler  in  the  midst 
Alone.     A  moment  longer  on  the  face 
Of  the  meek  Nazarene  he  kept  his  gaze, 
And  as  the  twelve  look'd  on  him,  by  the  light 
Of  the  clear  moon  they  saw  a  glistening  tear 
Steal  to  his  silver  beard,  and  drawing  nigh 
Unto  the  Saviour's  feet,  he  took  the  hem 
Of  his  coarse  mantle,  and  with  trembling  hands 
Press'd  it  upon  his  lips,  and  murmur'd  low, 
"  Master!  my  daughter  /" — 

.     '• •>.hf! ;:  .         The  same  silvery  light, 
That  shone  upon  the  lone  rock  by  the  sea, 
Slept  on  the  Ruler's  lofty  capitals 
As  at  the  door  he  stood,  and  welcom'd  in 
Jesus  and  his  disciples.     All  was  still. 
The  echoing  vestibule  gave  back  the  slide 
Of  their  loose  sandals,  and  the  arrowy  beam 
Of  moonlight  slanting  to  the  marble  floor 
Lay  like  a  spell  of  silence  in  the  rooms 
As  Jairus  led  them  on.     With  hushing  steps 
He  trod  the  winding  stair,  but  ere  he  touch'd 
The  latchet,  from  within  a  whisper  came, 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JAIRUS.  129 

"  Trouble  the  Master  not— for  she  is  dead!" 
And  his  faint  hand  fell  nerveless  at  his  side, 
And  his  steps  falter'd,  and  his  broken  voice 
Chok'd  in  its  utterance  ; — But  a  gentle  hand 
Was  laid  upon  his  arm,  and  in  his  ear 
The  Saviour's  voice  sank  thrillingly  and  low, 
"  She  is  not  dead — but  shepeth." 

They  pass'd  in. 

The  spice-lamps  in  the  alabaster  urns 
BurnM  dimly,  and  the  white  and  fragrant  smoke 
Curl'd  indolently  on  the  chamber  walls. 
The  silken  curtains  slumbered  in  their  folds — 
Not  ev'n  a  tassel  stirring  in  the  air — 
And  as  the  Saviour  stood  beside  the  bed, 
And  pray'd  inaudibly,  the  Ruler  heard 
The  quickening  division  of  his  breath 
As  he  grew  earnest  inwardly.     There  came 
A  gradual  brightness  o'er  his  calm  sad  face, 
And  drawing  nearer  to  the  bed,  he  mov'd 
The  silken  curtains  silently  apart 
And  look'd  upon  the  maiden. 


130  THE    HEALING    OP 

Like  a  form 

Of  matchless  sculpture  in  her  sleep  she  lay — 
The  linen  vesture  folded  on  her  breast, 
And  over  it  her  white  transparent  hands, 
The  blood  still  rosy  in  their  tapering  nails. 
A  line  of  pearl  ran  through  her  parted  lips, 
And  in  her  nostrils,  spiritually  thin, 
The  breathing  curve  was  mockingly  like  life, 
And  round  beneath  the  faintly  tinted  skin 
Ran  the  light  branches  of  the  azure  veins— 
And  on  her  cheek  the  jet  lash  overlay 
Matching  the  arches  pencilled  on  her  brow: 
Her  hair  had  been  unbound,  and  falling  loose 
Upon  her  pillow,  hid  her  small  round  ears 
In  curls  of  glossy  blackness,  and  about 
Her  polished  neck,  scarce  touching  it,  they  hung 
Like  airy  shadows  floating  as  they  slept. 
'Twas  heavenly  beautiful.     The  Saviour  rais'd 
Her  hand  from  off  her  bosom,  and  spread  out 
The  snowy  fingers  in  his  palm,  and  said 
"  Maiden  !  Arise  /" — and  suddenly  a  flush 
Shot  o'er  her  forehead,  and  along  her  lips 
And  through  her  cheek  the  rallied  color  ran, 


THE    DAUGHTER    OF    JAIRUS.  131 

And  the  still  outline  of  her  graceful  form 
Stirr'd  in  the  linen  vesture,  and  she  clasp'd 
The  Saviour's  hand,  and  fixing  her  dark  eyes 
Full  on  his  beaming  countenance — AROSE  ! 


13-2 


THE  SOLDIER'S  WIDOW. 


Wo  for  my  vine  clad  home  ! 
That  it  should  ever  be  so  dark  to  me, 
With  its  bright  threshold,  and  its  whispering  tree ! 

That  I  should  ever  come, 
Fearing  the  lonely  echo  of  a  tread 
Beneath  the  roof-tree  of  my  glorious  dead  ! 

Lead  on  my  orphan  boy ! 
Thy  home  is  not  so  desolate  to  thee — 
And  the  low  shiver  in  the  linden  tree 

May  bring  to  thee  a  joy  ; 

But,  oh,  how  dark  is  the  bright  home  before  thee, 
To  her  who  with  a  joyous  spirit  bore  thee ! 


133 


Lead  on  !  for  thou  art  now 
My  sole  remaining  helper.     God  hath  spoken, 
And  the  strong  heart  I  lean'd  upon  is  broken ; 

And  I  have  seen  his  brow, 
The  forehead  of  my  upright  one,  and  just, 
Trod  by  the  hoof  of  battle  to  the  dust. 

He  will  not  meet  thee  there 
Who  blest  thee  at  the  eventide,  my  son ! 
And  when  the  shadows  of  the  night  steal  on, 

He  will  not  call  to  prayer. 
The  lips  that  melted,  giving  thee  to  God,  ! 
Are  in  the  icy  keeping  of  the  sod  ! 

Ay,  my  own  boy  !  thy  sire 
Is  with  the  sleepers  of  the  valley  cast, 
And  the  proud  glory  of  my  life  hath  past 

With  his  high  glance  of  fire. 
Wo  that  the  linden  and  the  vine  should  bloom, 
And  a  just  man  be  gathered  to'the  tomb  ! 

Why — bear  them  proudly,  boy ! 
It  is  the  sword  he  girded  to  his  thigh — 
12 


134          THE    SOLDIER'S    WIDOW. 

It  is  the  helm  he  wore  in  victory — 

And  shall  we  have  no  joy  1 
For  thy  green  vales,  oh  Switzerland,  he  died  ! — 
I  will  forget  my  sorrow  in  my  pride  I 


135 


EXTRACT  FROM  A  POEM  DELIVERED  AT  THE  DE 
PARTURE  OF  THE  SENIOR  CLASS  OF 
YALE  COLLEGE,  IN  1826. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

WE  shall  go  forth  together.     There  will  come 

Alike  the  day  of  trial  unto  all, 

And  the  rude  world  will  buffet  us  alike. 

Temptation  hath  a  music  for  all  ears  ; 

And  mad  ambition  trumpeteth  to  all ; 

And  the  ungovernable  thought  within 

Will  be  in  every  bosom  eloquent ; — 
/   But,  when  the  silence  and  the  calm  come  on, 
t,   And  the  high  seal  of  character  is  set, 

We  shall  not  all  be  similar.     The  scale 

Of  being  is  a  graduated  thing ; 

And  deeper  than  the  vanities  of  power, 

Or  the  vain  pomp  of  glory,  there  is  writ 


136  EXTRACT,     ETC. 

Gradation,  in  its  hidden  characters. 
The  pathway  to  the  grave  may  be  the  same, 
And  the  proud  man  shall  tread  it,  and  the  low, 
With  his  bowed  head,  shall  bear  him  company. 
Decay  will  make  no  difference,  and  death, 
With  his  cold  hand,  shall  make  no  difference  ; 
And  there  will  be  no  precedence  of  power, 
In  waking  at  the  coming  trump  of  God ; 

f  But  in  the  temper  of  the  invisible  mind, 

'  The  godlike  and  undying  intellect, 
There  are  distinctions  that  will  live  in  heaven, 
When  time  is  a  forgotten  circumstance  ! 
The  elevated  brow  of  kings  will  lose 
The  impress  of  regalia,  and  the  slave 
Will  wear  his  immortality  as  free, 
Beside  the  crystal  waters  ;  but  the  depth 
Of  glory  in  the  attributes  of  God, 
Will  measure  the  capacities  of  mind  ; 
And  as  the  angels  differ,  will  the  ken 
Of  gifted  spirits  glorify  him  more. 
It  is  life's  mystery.     The  soul  of  man 
Createth  its  own  destiny  of  power;) 
And,  as  the  trial  is  intenser  here, 


EXTRACT,     ETC.  137 

His  being  hath  a  nobler  strength  in  heaven. 

What  is  its  earthly  victory  ?     Press  on  \t 
For  it  hath  tempted  angels.     Yet  press  on ! 
For  it  shall  make  you  mighty  among  men  ; 
And  from  the  eyrie  of  your  eagle  thought, 
Ye  shall  look  down  on  monarchs.     O  press  on  ! 
For  the  high  ones  and  powerful  shall  come 
To  do  you  reverence  :  and  the  beautiful 
Will  know  the  purer  language  of  your  brow, 
And  read  it  like  a  talisman  of  love  ! 
Press  on  !   for  it  is  godlike  to  unloose 
The  spirit,  and  forget  yourself  in  thought ; 
Bending  a  pinion  for  the  deeper  sky, 
And,  in  the  very  fetters  of  your  flesh, 
Mating  with  the  pure  essences  of  heaven  ! 
Press  on  ! — '  for  in  the  grave  there  is  no  work, 
And  no  device.' — Press  on !  while  yet  ye  may  ! 

So  lives  the  soul  of  man.     It  is  the  thirst 
Of  his  immortal  nature  ;  and  he  rends 
The  rock  for  secret  fountains,  and  pursues 
The  path  of  the  illimitable  wind 

12* 


138  EXTRACT,     ETC. 

For  mysteries — and  this  is  human  pride  ! 

There  is  a  gentler  element,  and  man 

May  breathe  it  with  a  calm,  unruffled  soul, 

And  drink  its  living  waters  till  his  heart 

Is  pure — and  this  is  human  happiness  ! 

Its  secret  and  its  evidence  are  writ 

-In  the  broad  book  of  nature.     'Tis  to  have 

Attentive  and  believing  faculties  ; 

To  go  abroad  rejoicing  in  the  joy 

Of  beautiful  and  well  created  things ; 

To  love  the  voice  of  waters,  and  the  sheen 

Of  silver  fountains  leaping  to  the  sea  ; 

To  thrill  with  the  rich  melody  of  birds, 

Living  their  life  of  music  ;  to  be  glad 

In  the  gay  sunshine,  reverent  in  the  storm  ; 

To  see  a  beauty  in  the  stirring  leaf, 

And  find  calm  thoughts  beneath  the  whispering  tree  ; 

To  see,  and  hear,  and  breathe  the  evidence 

Of  God's  deep  wisdom  in  the  natural  world  ! 

It  is  to  linger  on  '  the  magic  face 

Of  human  beauty,'  and  from  light  and  shade 

Alike  to  draw  a  lesson  ;  'tis  to  love 

The  cadences  of  voices  that  are  tuned 


EXTRACT,     ETC.  139 

By  majesty  and  purity  of  thought; 

To  gaze  on  woman's  beauty,  as  a  star 

Whose  purity  and  distance  make  it  fair ; 

And  in  the  gush  of  music  to  be  still, 

And  feel  that  it  has  purified  the  heart ! 
J  It  is  to  love  all  virtue  for  itself, 

All  nature  for  its  breathing  evidence  ; 

And,  when  the  eye  hath  seen,  and  when  the  ear 

Hath  drunk  the  beautiful  harmony  of  the  world, 

It  is  to  humble  the  imperfect  mind, 
;.  And  lean  the  broken  spirit  upon  God  ! 

Thus  would  I,  at  this  parting  hour,  be  true 
To  the  great  moral  of  a  passing  world. 
Thus  would  I — like  a  just  departing  child, 
Who  lingers  on  the  threshold  of  his  home — 
Remember  the  best  lesson  of  the  lips 
Whose  accents  shall  be  with  us  now,  no  more  ! 
It  is  the  gift  of  sorrow  to  be  pure  : 
And  I  would  press  the  lesson  ;  that,  when  life 
Hath  half  become  a  weariness,  and  hope 
Thirsts  for  serener  waters,  go  abroad 
Upon  the  paths  of  nature,  and,  when  all 


140  EXTRACT,      ETC. 

Its  voices  whisper,  and  its  silent  things 
Are  breathing  the  deep  beauty  of  the  world, 
Kneel  at  its  simple  altar,  and  the  God 
Who  hath  the  living  waters  shall  be  there ! 


141 


TO  A  CITY  PIGEON. 


STOOP  to  my  window,  thou  beautiful  dove  ! 
Thy  daily  visits  have  touch'd  my  love, 
I  watch  thy  coming,  and  list  the  note 
That  stirs  so  low  in  thy  mellow  throat, 

And  my  joy  is  high 
To  catch  the  glance  of  thy  gentle  eye. 

Why  dost  thou  sit  on  the  heated  eves, 

And  forsake  the  wood  with  its  freshen'd  leaves  1 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  the  sultry  street, 

When  the  paths  of  the  forest  are  cool  and  sweet  1 

How  canst  thou  bear 
This  noise  of  people — this  sultry  air  1 


142  TO     A     CITY     PIGEON. 

Thou  alone  of  the  feather'd  race 

Dost  look  unscared  on  the  human  face  ; 

Thou  alone,  with  a  wing  to  flee, 

Dost  love  with  man  in  his  haunts  to  be  ; 

And  "  the  gentle  dove" 
Has  become  a  name  for  trust  and  love. 

A  holy  gift  is  thine,  sweet  bird ! 
Thou'rt  nam'd  with  childhood's  earliest  word  ! 
Thou'rt  link'd  with  all  that  is  fresh  and  wild 
In  the  prison'd  thoughts  of  the  city  child, 

And  thy  glossy  wings 
Are  its  brightest  image  of  moving  things. 

It  is  no  light  chance.     Thou  art  set  apart, 
Wisely  by  Him  who  has  tam'd  thy  heart, 
To  stir  the  love  for  the  bright  and  fair 
That  else  were  seal'd  in  this  crowded  air ; 

I  sometimes  dream 
Angelic  rays  from  thy  pinions  stream. 

Come  then,  ever,  when  daylight  leaves 
The  page  I  read,  to  my  humble  eaves, 


TO    A     CITY    PIGEON.  143 

And  wash  thy  breast  in  the  hollow  spout, 
And  murmur  thy  low  sweet  music  out ! 

I  hear  and  see 
Lessons  of  Heaven,  sweet  bird,  in  thee  ! 


TO  JULIA  GRISI, 


AFTER  HEARING  HER  IX  ANNA  EOLENA. 


When  the  rose,  is  brightest, 
Its  bloom  will  soonest  fly; 

When  burns  the  meteor  lightest, 
'Twill  vanish  from  the  sky ! 
If  Death  but  wait  until  Delight 
O'errun  the  heart  like  wine, 
And  break  the  cup  when  brimming  quite- 
I  die — for  thou  hast  pour'd,  to-night, 
The  last  drop  into  mine. 


144 


THE  BAPTISM  OF  CHRIST. 


IT  was  a  green  spot  in  the  wilderness, 
Touch'd  by  the  river  Jordan.     The  dark  pine 
Never  had  dropp'd  its  tassels  on  the  moss 
Tufting  the  leaning  bank,  nor  on  the  grass 
Of  the  broad  circle  stretching  evenly 
To  the  straight  larches,  had  a  heavier  foot 
Than  the  wild  heron's  trodden.     Softly  in 
Through  a  long  aisle  of  willows,  dim  and  cool, 
Stole  the  clear  waters  with  their  muffled  feet, 
And  hushing  as  they  spread  into  the  light, 
Circled  the  edges  of  the  pebbled  tank 
Slowly,  then  rippled  through  the  woods  away. 

Hither  had  come  th'  Apostle  of  the  wild, 


THE     BAPTISM    OF     CHRIST*.  145 

Winding  the  river's  course.     'Twas  near  the  flush 
Of  eve,  and,  with  a  multitude  around, 
Who  from  the  cities  had  come  out  to  hear, 
He  stood  breast  high  amid  the  running  stream, 
Baptizing  as  the  Spirit  gave  him  power. 
His  simple  raiment  was  of  camel's  hair, 
A  leathern  girdle  close  about  his  loins, 
His  beard  unshorn,  and  for  his  daily  meat 
The  locust  and  wild  honey  of  the  wood — 
But  like  the  face  of  Moses  on  the  mount 
Shone  his  rapt  countenance,  and  in  his  eye 
Burned  the  mild  fire  of  love,  as  he  spoke 
The  ear  lean'd  to  him,  and  persuasion  swift 
To  the  chain'd  spirit  of  the  listener  stole. 

Silent  upon  the  green  and  sloping  bank 

The  people  sat,  and  while  the  leaves  were  shook 

With  the  birds  dropping  early  to  their  nests, 

And  the  grey  eve  came  on,  within  their  hearts 

They  musM  if  he  were  Christ.     The  rippling  stream 

Still  turned  its  silver  courses  from  his  breast 

As  he  divined  their  thought.     "  I  but  baptize," 

He  said  "  with  water ;  but  there  cometh  One 
13 


146 


THE     BAPTISM     OP     CHRIST. 


The  latchet  of  whose  shoes  I  may  not  dare 
Ev'n  to  unloose.     He  will  baptize  with  fire 
And  with  the  Holy  Ghost."     And  lo  !  while  yet 
The  words  were  on  his  lips,  he  rais'd  his  eyes 
And  on  the  bank  stood  Jesus.     He  had  laid 
His  raiment  off,  and  with  his  loins  alone 
Girt  with  a  mantle,  and  his  perfect  limbs, 
In  their  angelic  slightness,  meek  and  bare, 
He  waited  to  go  in.     But  John  forbade, 
And  hurried  to  his  feet  and  stay'd  him  there, 
And  said,  "  Nay,  Master  !     I  have  need  of  thine, 
Not  thou  of  mine  /"     And  Jesus,  with  a  smile 
Of  heavenly  sadness,  met  his  earnest  looks, 
And  answered,  "  Suffer  it  to  be  so  now  ; 
For  thus  it  doth  become  me  to  fulfil 
All  righteousness."     And,  leaning  to  the  stream, 
He  took  around  him  the  Apostle's  arm 
And  drew  him  gently  to  the  midst. 

The  wood 

Was  thick  with  the  dim  twilight  as  they  came 
Up  from  the  water.  With  his  clasped  hands 
Laid  on  his  breast  th'  Apostle  silently 


THE    BAPTISM    OP    CHRIST.  147 

Followed  his  Master's  steps — when  lo !  a  light, 

Bright  as  the  tenfold  glory  of  the  sun, 

Yet  lambent  as  the  softly  burning  stars, 

Enveloped  them,  and  from  the  heavens  away 

Parted  the  dim  blue  ether  like  a  veil ; 

And  as  a  voice,  fearful  exceedingly, 

Broke  from  the  midst,  "  THIS  is  MY  MUCH  LOV'D  SON 

IN  WHOM  I  AM  WELL  PLEASED,"  a  snow-white  dove, 

Floating  upon  its  wings,  descended  thro1, 

And  shedding  a  swift  music  from  its  plumes, 

Circled,  and  flutter'd  to  the  Saviour's  breast. 


148 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  BOY. 


"  Thou  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  readst  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind." 

WORDSWORTH. 


A  BOY  !  yet  in  his  eye  you  trace 

The  watchfulness  of  riper  years, 
And  tales  are  in  that  serious  face 
Of  feelings  early  steep'd  in  tears ; 

And  in  that  tranquil  gaze 
There  lingers  many  a  thought  unsaid, 

Shadows  of  other  days, 
Whose  hours  with  shapes  of  beauty  came  and  fled- 


ON    A    PICTURE    OF    A    BEAUTIFUL    BOY.       149 

And  sometimes  it  is  even  so ! 

The  spirit  ripens  in  the  germ  ; 
The  new-seal'd  fountains  overflow, 

The  bright  wings  tremble  in  the  worm. 
The  soul  detects  some  passing  token, 
Some  emblem  of  a  brighter  world, 
And,  with  its  shell  of  clay  unbroken, 
Its  shining  pinions  are  unfurl'd, 

And,  like  a  blessed  dream, 
Phantoms,  apparell'd  from  the  sky, 

Athwart  its  vision  gleam 

As  if  the  light  of  Heaven  had  touched  its  gifted 
eye. 

'Tis  strange  how  childhood's  simple  words 

Interpret  Nature's  mystic  book — 
How  it  will  listen  to  the  birds, 
Or  ponder  on  the  running  brook, 

As  if  its  spirit  fed. 
And  strange  that  we  remember  not, 
Who  fill  its  eye,  and  weave  its  lot, 
How  lightly  it  were  led 

Back  to  the  home  which  it  has  scarce  forgot. 
13* 


150 


ON  THE  PICTURE  OF  A  "  CHILD  TIRED  OF  PLAY." 


TIRED  of  play  !     Tired  of  play  ! 
What  hast  thou  done  this  livelong  day  1 
The  birds  are  silent,  and  so  is  the  bee ; 
The  sun  is  creeping  up  steeple  and  tree  ; 
The  doves  have  flown  to  the  sheltering  eaves, 
And  the  nests  are  dark  with  the  drooping  leaves, 
Twilight  gathers,  and  day  is  done — 
How  hast  thou  spent  it — restless  one ! 

Playing  ?     But  what  hast  thou  done  beside 

To  tell  thy  mother  at  even  tide  1 

What  promise  of  morn  is  left  unbroken  ? 


CHILD    TIRED    OF    PLAY.  151 

<  What  kind  word  to  thy  playmate  spoken  1 
Whom  hast  thou  pitied,  and  whom  forgiven  ? 
How  with  thy  faults  has  duty  striven  ? 
What  hast  thou  learned  by  field  and  hill, 
By  greenwood  path,  and  by  singing  rill  ? 

There  will  come  an  eve  to  a  longer  day, 
That  will  find  thee  tired — but  not  of  play  ! 
And  thou  wilt  lean,  as  thou  leanest  now, 
With  drooping  limbs  and  an  aching  brow, 
And  wish  the  shadows  would  faster  creep, 
And  long  to  go  to  thy  quiet  sleep. 
Well  were  it  then  if  thine  aching  brow 
Were  as  free  from  sin  and  shame  as  now  ! 
Well  for  thee,  if  thy  lip  could  tell 
A  tale  like  this,  of  a  day  spent  well. 
If  thine  open  hand  hath  reliev'd  distress 
If  thy  pity  hath  sprung  to  wretchedness — 
If  thou  hast  forgiven  the  sore  offence, 
And  humbled  thy  heart  with  penitence — 
If  Nature's  voices  have  spoken  to  thee 
With  their  holy  meanings  eloquently — 
If  every  creature  hath  won  thy  love, 


152  CHILD      TIRED      OF     PLAY. 

From  the  creeping  worm  to  the  brooding  dove, 

If  never  a  sad,  low-spoken  word 

Hath  plead  with  thy  human  heart  unheard — 

Then,  wheto  the  night  steals  on  as  now, 

It  will  bring  relief  to  thine  aching  brow, 

And,  with  joy  and  peace  at  the  thought  of  rest, 

Thou  wilt  sink  to  sleep  on  thy  mother's  breast. 


153 


TO  A  FACE  BELOVED. 


The  music  of  the  waken'd  lyre 

Dies  not  upon  the  quivering  strings, 
Nor  burns  alone  the  minstrel's  fire 

Upon  the  lip  that  trembling  sings  ; 
Nor  shines  the  moon  in  heaven  unseen, 

Nor  shuts  the  flower  its  fragrant  cells, 
Nor  sleeps  the  fountain's  wealth,  I  ween, 

For  ever  in  its  sparry  wells — 
The  spells  of  the  enchanter  lie 
Not  on  his  own  lone  heart — his  own  rapt  ear  arid  eye. 

I  look  upon  a  face  as  fair 
As  ever  made  a  lip  of  heaven 


154  TO     A     FACE     BELOVED. 

Falter  amid  its  music-prayer ! 

The  first-lit  star  of  summer  even 
Springs  not  so  softly  on  the  eye, 

Nor  grows,  with  watching  half  so  bright, 
Nor  mid  its  sisters  of  the  sky, 

So  seems  of  heaven  the  dearest  light — 
Men  murmur  where  that  face  is  seen, 
My  youth's  angelic  dream  was  of  that  look  and  mien. 

Yet  though  we  deem  the  stars  are  blest, 

And  envy,  in  our  grief,  the  flower 
That  bears  but  sweetness  in  its  breast, 

And  feared  th'  enchanter  for  his  power, 
And  love  the  minstrel  for  his  spell, 

He  winds  out  of  his  lyre  so  well — 
The  stars  are  almoners  of  light, 

The  lyrist  of  melodious  air, 
The  fountain  of  its  waters  bright 

And  every  thing  most  sweet  and  fair 
Of  that  by  which  it  charms  the  ear, 

The  eye  of  him  that  passes  near — 
A  lamp  is  lit  in  woman's  eye 
That  souls,  else  lost  on  earth,  remember  angels  by. 


155 


IDLENESS. 


"  Idleness  is  sweet  and  sacred." 

WALTER    SAVAGE   LANDOR. 

•'  When  you  have  found  a  day  to  be  idle,  be  idle  for  a  day. 
"  When  you  have  met  with  three  cups  to  drink,  drink  your 
three  cups." 

CHINESE    POET- 


THE  rain  is  playing  its  soft  pleasant  tune 
Fitfully  on  the  skylight,  and  the  shade 
Of  the  fast-flying  clouds  across  my  book 
Passes  with  delicate  change.     My  merry  fire 
Sings  cheerfully  to  itself;  my  musing  cat 
Purrs  as  she  wakes  from  her  unquiet  sleep, 
And  looks  into  my  face  as  if  she  felt 


156  IDLENESS. 

Like  me  the  gentle  influence  of  the  rain. 

Here  have  I  sat  since  morn,  reading  sometimes, 

And  sometimes  listening  to  the  faster  fall 

Of  the  large  drops,  or  rising  with  the  stir 

Of  an  unbidden  thought,  have  walked  awhile 

With  the  slow  steps  of  indolence,  my  room, 

And  then  sat  down  composedly  again 

To  my  quaint  book  of  olden  poetry. 

It  is  a  kind  of  idleness,  I  know  ; 

And  I  am  said  to  be  an  idle  man — 

And  it  is  very  true.     I  love  to  go 

Out  in  the  pleasant  sun,  and  let  my  eye 

Rest  on  the  human  faces  that  pass  by, 

Each  with  its  gay  or  busy  interest : 

And  then  I  muse  upon  their  lot,  and  read 

Many  a  lesson  in  their  changeful  cast, 

And  so  grow  kind  of  heart,  as  if  the  sight 

Of  human  beings,  were  humanity. 

And  I  am  better  after  it,  and  go 

More  gratefully  to  my  rest,  and  feel  a  love 

Stirring  my  heart  to  every  living  thing, 

And  my  low  prayer  has  more  humility, 

And  I  sink  lightlier  to  my  dreams — and  this, 


IDLENESS.  157 

'Tis  very  true,  is  only  idleness  ! 
I  love  to  go  and  mingle  with  the  young 
In  the  gay  festal  room — when  every  heart 
Is  beating  faster  than  the  merry  tune, 
And  their  blue  eyes  are  restless,  and  their  lips 
Parted  with  eager  joy,  and  their  round  cheeks 
Flushed  with  the  beautiful  motion  of  the  dance. 
And  I  can  look  upon  such  things,  and  go 
Back  to  my  solitude,  and  dream  bright  dreams 
For  their  fast  coming  years,  and  speak  of  them 
Earnestly  in  my  prayer,  till  I  am  glad 
With  a  benevolent  joy — and  this,  I  know, 
To  the  world's  eye  is  only  idleness ! 

And  when  the  clouds  pass  suddenly  away, 
And  the  blue  sky  is  like  a  newer  world, 
And  the  sweet  growing  things — forest  and  flower, 
Humble  and  beautiful  alike — are  all 
Breathing  up  odors  to  the  very  heaven — 
Or  when  the  frost  has  yielded  to  the  sun 
In  the  rich  autumn,  and  the  filmy  mist 
Lies  like  a  silver  lining  on  the  sky, 
14 


158  IDLENESS. 

And  the  clear  air  exhilirates,  and  life 
Simply,  is  luxury — and  when  the  hush 
Of  twilight,  like  a  gentle  sleep,  steals  on, 
And  the  birds  settle  to  their  nests,  and  stars 
Spring  in  the  upper  sky,  and  there  is  not 
A  sound  that  is  not  low  and  musical — 
At  all  these  pleasant  seasons  I  go  out 
With  my  first  impulse  guiding  me,  and  take 
Woodpath  or  stream,  or  slope  by  hill  or  vale, 
And  in  my  recklessness  of  heart,  stray  on, 
Glad  with  the  birds,  and  silent  with  the  leaves, 
And  happy  with  the  fair  and  blessed  world — 
And  this,  'tis  true,  is  only  idleness  ! 

And  I  should  love  to  go  up  to  the  sky, 
And  course  the  heavens,  like  stars,  and  float  away 
Upon  the  gliaing  clouds  that  have  no  stay 
In  their  swift  journey — arid  'twould  be  a  joy 
To  walk  the  chambers  of  the  deep,  and  tread 
The  pearls  of  its  untrodden  floor,  and  know 
The  tribes  of  the  unfathomable  depths — 
Dwellers  beneath  the  pressure  of  a  sea ! 


IDLENESS.  159 

And  I  should  love  to  issue  with  the  wind 
On  a  strong  errand,  and  o'ersweep  the  earth 
With  its  broad  continents  and  islands  green, 
Like  to  the  passing  of  a  spirit  on  ! — 
And  this,  'tis  true,  were  only  idleness  ! 


160 


THE  BURIAL  OF  ARNOLD. 


YE'VE  gathered  to  your  place  of  prayer 

With  slow  and  meausured  tread  : 
Your  ranks  are  full,  your  mates  all  there- 

But  the  soul  of  one  has  fled. 
He  was  the  proudest  in  his  strength, 

The  manliest  of  ye  all ; 
Why  lies  he  at  that  fearful  length, 

And  ye  around  his  pall  1 

Ye  reckon  it  in  days,  since  he 

Strode  up  that  foot-worn  aisle, 
With  his  dark  eye  flashing  gloriously^ 


THE    BURIAL    OF    ARNOLD.  161 

And  Jiis  lip  wreathed  with  a  smile. 
O,  had  it  been  but  told  you,  then, 

To  mark  whose  lamp  was  dim, 
From  out  yon  rank  of  fresh-lipped  men, 

Would  ye  have  singled  him  1 

Whose  was  the  sinewy  arm,  that  flung 

Defiance  to  the  ring? 
Whose  laugh  of  victory  loudest  rung — 

Yet  not  for  glorying? 
Whose  heart,  in  generous  deed  and  thought, 

No  rivalry  might  brook, 
And  yet  distinction  claiming  not  ? 

There  lies  he — go  and  look  ! 

On  now — his  requiem  is  done, 

The  last  deep  prayer  is  said— 
On  to  his  burial,  comrades — on, 

With  the  noblest  of  the  dead  ! 
Slow — for  it  presses  heavily — 

It  is  a  man  ye  bear  ! 
Slow,  for  our  thoughts  dwell  wearily 

On  the  noble  sleeper  there. 
14* 


162  THE    BURIAL    OF    ARNOLD. 

Tread  lightly,  comrades  ! — we  have  laid 

His  dark  locks  on  his  brow — 
Like  life — save  deeper  light  and  shade  : 

We'll  not  disturb  them  now. 
Tread  lightly — for  'tis  beautiful, 

That  blue-veined  eye-lid's  sleep, 
Hiding  the  eye  death  left  so  dull — 

Its  slumber  we  will  keep. 

Rest  now  ! — his  journeying  is  done — 

Your  feet  are  on  his  sod — 
Death's  chain  is  on  your  champion — 

He  waiteth  here  his  God 
Ay — turn  and  weep — 'tis  manliness 

To  be  heart-broken  here — 
For  the  grave  of  earth's  best  nobleness 

Is  watered  by  the  tear. 


163 


SPRING. 


"  L'onda  del  mar  divisa 
Bagna  la  valle  e  1'monte, 

Va  passegiera 

In  fiume, 

Va  prigionera 

In  fonte, 

Mormara  sempre  e  geme 
Fin  che  non  torna  al  mar." 

METASTASIO, 


THE  Spring  is  here — the  delicate-footed  May, 
With  its  slight  fingers  full  of  leaves  and  flowers 

And  with  it  comes  a  thirst  to  be  away, 

Wasting  in  wood-paths  its  voluptuous  hours — 

A  feeling  that  is  like  a  sense  of  wings, 

Restless  to  soar  above  these  perishing  things. 


164  SPRING. 

We  pass  out  from  the  city's  feverish  hum, 
To  find  refreshment  in  the  silent  woods  ; 

And  nature,  that  is  beautiful  and  dumb, 

Like  a  cool  sleep  upon  the  pulses  broods — 

Yet,  even  there,  a  restless  thought  will  steal 

To  teach  the  indolent  heart  it  still  must  feel. 

Strange,  that  the  audible  stillness  of  the  noon, 
The  waters  tripping  with  their  silver  feet, 

The  turning  to  the  light  leaves  in  June, 

And  the  light  whisper  as  their  edges  meet — 

Strange — that  they  fill  not,  with  their  tranquil  tone, 

The  spirit,  walking  in  their  midst  alone. 

There's  no  contentment  in  a  world  like  this, 
Save  in  forgetting  the  immortal  dream  ; 

We  may  not  gaze  upon  the  stars  of  bliss, 

That  through  the  cloud-rifts  radiantly  stream  ; 

Bird-like,  the  prisoned  soul  will  lift  its  eye 

And  pine  till  it  is  hooded  from  the  sky. 


165 


THE  TORN  HAT, 

(A    PICTURE    BY   SULLY.) 


"A  leaf 

Fresh  flung  upon  a  river,  that  will  dance 
Upon  the  wave  that  stealeth  out  its  life, 
Then  sink  of  its  own  heaviness." 

PHILIP    SLINGSBV. 


THERE'S  something  in  a  noble  boy, 
A  brave,  free-hearted,  careless  one, 

With  his  unchecked,  unbidden  joy, 
His  dread  of  books  and  love  of  fun, 

And  in  his  clear  and  ready  smile, 

Unshaded  by  a  thought  of  guile, 


166  THETORNHAT. 

And  unrepressed  by  sadness — 
Which  brings  me  to  my  childhood  back, 
As  if  I  trod  its  very  track, 

And  felt  its  very  gladness. 
And  yet  it  is  not  in  his  play, 

When  every  trace  of  thought  is  lost, 
And  not  when  you  would  call  him  gay, 

That  his  bright  presence  thrills  me  most. 

His  shout  may  ring  upon  the  hill, 
His  voice  be  echoed  in  the  hall, 

His  merry  laugh  like  music  trill, 
And  I  in  sadness  hear  it  all — 

For,  like  the  wrinkles  on  my  brow, 

T  scarcely  notice  such  things  now — 
But  when,  amid  the  earnest  game, 

He  stops,  as  if  he  music  heard, 
And,  heedless  of  his  shouted  name 

As  of  the  carol  of  a  bird, 
Stands  gazing  on  the  empty  air 
As  if  some  dream  were  passing  there — 

'Tis  then  that  on  his  face  I  look, 
His  beautiful  but  thoughtful  face, 

And,  like  a  long- forgotten  book, 


THE    TORN    HAT.  167 

Its  sweet,  familiar  meanings  trace 

Remembering  a  thousand  things 
{  Which  passed  me  on  those  golden  wings, 
Which  time  has  fettered  now — 

Things  that  came  o'er  me  with  a  thrill, 

And  left  me  silent,  sad,  and  still, 
And  threw  upon  my  brow 

A  holier  and  a  gentler  cast, 

That  was  too  innocent  to  last. 

'Tis  strange  how  thought  upon  a  child 

Will,  like  a  presence,  sometimes  press, 
And  when  his  pulse  is  beating  wild, 

And  life  itself  is  in  excess — 
When  foot  and  hand,  and  ear  and  eye, 
Are  all  with  ardor  straining  high — 

How  in  his  heart  will  spring 
A  feeling  whose  mysterious  thrall 
Is  stronger,  sweeter  far  than  all ; 

And  on  its  silent  wing, 
How  with  the  clouds  he'll  float  away, 
As  wandering  and  as  lost  as  they  ! 


168 


APRIL. 


"  A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone, 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye, 

Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky." 

WORDSWORTH. 


1  HAVE  found  violets.     April  hath  come  on, 
And  the  cool  winds  feel  softer,  and  the  rain 
Falls  in  the  beaded  drops  of  summer  time. 
You  may  hear  birds  at  morning,  and  at  eve 
The  tame  dove  lingers  till  the  twilight  falls, 
Cooing  upon  the  eaves,  and  drawing  in 
His  beautiful  bright  neck,  and,  from  the  hills, 
A  murmur  like  the  hoarseness  of  the  sea 


APRIL.  169 

Tells  the  release  of  waters,  and  the  earth 
Sends  up  a  pleasant  smell,  and  the  dry  leaves 
Are  lifted  by  the  grass — and  so  I  know 
That  Nature,  with  her  delicate  ear,  hath  heard 
The  dropping  of  the  velvet  foot  of  Spring. 
Take  of  my  violets  !   .  I  found  them  where 
The  liquid  South  stole  o'er  them,  on  a  bank 
That  leaned  to  running  water.     There's  to  me 
A  daintiness  about  these  early  flowers 
That  touches  me  like  poetry.     They  blow 
With  such  a  simple  loveliness  among 
The  common  herbs  of  pasture,  .and  breathe  out 
i   Their  lives  so  unobtrusively,  like  hearts 
\  Whose  beatings  are  too  gentle  for  the  world./ 
I  love  to  go  in  the  capricious  days 
Of  April  and  hunt  violets  ;  when  the  rain 
Is  in  the  blue  cups  trembling,  and  they  nod 
So  gracefully  to  the  kisses  of  the  wind. 
It  may  be  deem'd  too  idle,  but  the  young 
Read  nature  like  the  manuscript  of  heaven, 
And  call  the  flowers  its  poetry.     Go  out ! 
Ye  spirits  of  habitual  unrest, 
And  read  it  when  the  "  fever  of  the  world" 
15 


170  APRIL. 

Hath  made  your  hearts  impatient,  and,  if  life 
Hath  yet  one  spring  unpoisoned,  it  will  be 
Like  a  beguiling  music  to  its  flow, 
And  you  will  no  more  wonder  that  I  love 
To  hunt  for  violets  in  the  April  time. 


171 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 


"  Mine  eyes  are  sick  of  this  perpetual  flow 
Of  people,  and  my  heart  of  one  sad  thought." 

SHELLEY. 


ON  the  cross  beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well. 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air  : 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 
Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 
And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 


172  THE     BELFRY     PIGEON. 

'Tis  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 
And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat ; 
There's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 
And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 
And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel — 
He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

V 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell — 
Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell — 
The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 
When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon- 
When  the  sexton  cheerly  rings  for  noon — 
When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light — 
When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night" — 
When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 
Filling  the  spirit  with  tones. of  prayer — 
Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 
He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 
Or  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 
He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 
Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 
And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 


THE     BELFRY     PIGEON.  173 

Sweet  bird  !   I  would  that  I  could  be 

A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee! 

With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 

Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men  ; 

And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 

I  tread,  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 

But,  unlike  me,  when  day  is  o'er, 

Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 

Or,  at  a  half  felt  wish  for  rest, 

Canst  smooth  thy  feathers  on  thy  breast, 

And  drop  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 

I  would  that  in  such  wings  of  gold 

I  could  my  weary  heart  upfold  ; 

I  would  I  could  look  down  unmoved, 

(Unloving  as  I  am  unloved,) 

And  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath, 

Smooth  down  my  cares  and  calmly  breathe ; 

And  never  sad  with  others'  sadness, 

And  never  glad  with  others'  gladness, 

Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 

And,  lapt  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 


174 


TO  LAURA  W ,  TWO  YEARS  OF  AGE. 


BRIGHT  be  the  skies  that  cover  thee, 

Child  of  the  sunny  brow — 
Bright  as  the  dream  flung  over  thee — 

By  all  that  meets  thee  now. 
Thy  heart  is  beating  joyously, 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  bird's — 
And  sweetly  breaks  the  melody 

Of  thy  imperfect  words. 
I  know  no  fount  that  gushes  out 
As  gladly  as  thy  tiny  shout. 

I  would  that  thou  might'st  ever  be 
As  beautiful  as  now, — 


TO     LAURA     \V .  175 

That  time  might  ever  leave  as  free 

Thy  yet  unwriiten  brow  : 
I  would  life  were  "  all  poetry" 

To  gentle  measure  set, 
That  nought  but  chasten'd  melody 

Might  stain  thy  eye  of  jet — 
Nor  one  discordant  note  be  spoken, 
Till  God  the  cunning  harp  hath  broken. 

I  would — but  deeper  things  than  these 

With  woman's  lot  are  wove : 
Wrought  of  intenser  sympathies,. 

And  nerv'd  by  purest  love — 
By  the  strong  spirit's  discipline, 

By  the  fierce  wrong  forgiven, 
By  all  that  wrings  the  heart  of  sin, 

Is  woman  won  to  Heaven. 
"  Her  lot  is  on  thee,"  lovely  child — 
God  keep  thy  spirit  undefined! 

I  fear  thy  gentle  loveliness, 

Thy  witching  tone  and  air, 
Thine  eye's  beseeching  earnestness 


176  TO      LAURA      W . 

May  be  to  thee  a  snare. 
The  silver  stars  may  purely  shine, 

The  water's  taintless  flow — 
But  they  who  kneel  at  woman's  shrine, 

Breathe  on  it  as  they  bow — 
Ye  may  fling  back  the  gift  again, 
But  the  crushed  flower  will  leave  a  stain. 

What  shall  preserve  thee,  beautiful  child  ? 

Keep  thee  as  thou  art  now? 
Bring  thee,  a  spirit  undefiled, 

At  God's  pure  throne  to  bow  ? 
The  world  is  but  a  broken  reed, 

And  life  grows  early  dim — 
Who  shall  be  near  thee  in  thy  need, 

To  lead  thee  up — to  Him  ? 
He,  who  himself  was  "  undefiled?" 
With  him,  we  trust  thee,  beautiful  child ! 


177 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  A  GIRL  LEADING  HER  BLIND 
MOTHER  THROUGH  THE  WOOD. 


THE  green  leaves  as  we  pass 
Lay  their  light  fingers  on  chee  unaware, 
And  by  thy  side  the  hazels  clester  fair, 

And  the  low  forest-grass 

Grows  green  and  silken  where  the  wood-paths  wind- 
Alas  !  for  thee,  sweet  mother!   thou  art  blind  ! 

And  nature  is  all  bright ; 
And  the  faint  gray  and  crimson  of  the  dawn, 
Like  folded  curtains  from  the  day  are  drawn ; 

And  evening's  purple  light 
Quivers  in  tremulous  softness  on  the  sky — 
Alas !  sweet  mother!  for  thy  clouded  eye  I 


THE     BLIND      MOTHER. 

The  moon's  new  silver  shell 
Trembles  above  thee,  and  the  stars  float  up, 
In  the  blue  air,  and  the  rich  tulip's  cup 

Is  pencill'd  passing  well, 
And  the  swift  birds  on  glorious  pinions  flee— 
Alas  !  sweet  mother  !   that  thou  canst  not  see  ! 

And  the  kind  looks  of  friends 
Peruse  the  sad  expression  in  thy  face, 
And  the  child  stops  amid  his  bounding  race, 

And  the  tall  stripling  bends 
Low  to  thine  ear  with  duty  unforgot— 
Alas!  sweet  mother!  that  thou  seest  them  not ! 

But  thou  canst  hear!  and  love 
May  richly  on  a  human  tone  be  pour'd, 
And  the  least  cadence  of  a  whisper'd  word 

A  daughter's  love  may  prove — 
And  while  I  speak  thou  knowst  if  I  smile, 
Albeit  thou  canst  not  see  my  face  the  while  ! 

Yes,  thou  canst  hear !  and  He 
Who  on  thy  sightless  eye  its  darkness  hung, 


THE     BLIND     MOTHER.  179 

To  the  attentive  ear,  like  harps,  hath  strung 

Heaven  and  earth  and  sea  ! 
And  'tis  a  lesson  in  our  hearts  to  know — 
With  but  one  sense  the  soul  may  overflow. 


180 


TO  A  STOLEN  RING. 

OH  for  thy  history  now  !     Hadst  thou  a  tongue 

To  whisper  of  thy  secrets,  I  could  lay 

Upon  thy  jewell'd  tracery  mine  ear 

And  dream  myself  in  heaven.    Thou  hast  been  worn 

In  that  fair  creature's  pride,  and  thou  hast  felt 

The  bounding  of  the  haughtiest  blood  that  e'er 

Sprang  from  the  heart  of  woman  ;  and  thy  gold 

Has  lain  upon  her  forehead  in  the  hour 

Of  sadness,  when  the  weary  thoughts  came  fast 

And  life  was  but  a  bitterness  with  all 

Its  vividness  and  beauty.     She  has  gazed 

In  her  fair  girlhood  on  thy  snowy  pearls, 

And  mused  away  the  hours,  and  she  has  bent 

On  thee  the  downcast  radiance  of  her  eye 


TO     A     STOLEN     RING.  181 

When  a  deep  tone  was  eloquent  in  her  ear, 

And  thou  hast  lain  upon  her  cheek,  and  prest 

Back  on  her  heart  its  beatings,  and  put  by 

From  her  vein'd  temples  the  luxuriant  curls, 

And  in  her  peaceful  sleep,  when  she  has  lain 

In  her  unconscious  beauty,  and  the  dreams 

Of  her  high  heart  came  goldenly  and  soft, 

Thou  hast  been  there  unchidden,  and  hast  felt 

The  swelling  of  the  clear  transparent  veins 

As  the  rich  blood  rush'd  through  them,  warm  and  fast. 

I  am  impatient  as  I  gaze  on  thee, 
Thou  inarticulate  jewel !     Thou  hast  heard 
With  thy  dull  ear  such  music  ! — the  low  tone 
Of  a  young  sister's  tenderness,  when  night 
Hath  folded  them  together  like  one  flower — 
The  sudden  snatch  of  a  remember'd  song 
Warbled  capriciously — the  careless  word 
Lightly  betraying  the  inaudible  thought 
Working  within  the  heart,  and  more  than  all, 
Thou  hast  been  lifted  when  the  fervent  prayer 
For  a  lov'd  mother,  or  the  sleeping  one 
16 


182  TO     A     STOLEN     RING. 

Lying  beside  her,  trembled  on  her  lip, 
And  the  warm  tear  that  from  her  eye  stole  out 
As  the  soft  lash  fell  over  it,  has  lain, 
Amid  thy  shining  jewels  like  a  star. 


183 


TO  MY  MOTHER  FROM  THE  APPENINES. 


"  Mother !  dear  mother !  the  feelings  nurst 
As  I  hung  at  thy  bosom,  clung  round  thee  first. 
'Tvvas  the  earliest  link  in  love's  warm  chain — 
'Tis  the  only  one  that  will  long  remain ; 
And  as  year  by  year,  and  day  by  day, 
Some  friend  still  trusted  drops  away, 
Mother !  dear  mother !  oh  dost  thou  see 
How  the  shortened  chain  brings  me  nearer  thee  ! 

PHILIP    SLINGSBY. 


'Tis  midnight  the  lone  mountains  on — 
The  East  is  fleck'd  with  cloudy  bars, 

And,  gliding  through  them  one  by  one, 
The  moon  walks  up-her  path  of  stars — 

The  light  upon  her  placid  brow 

Borrowed  of  fountains  unseen  now. 


184    TO    MY    MOTHER    FROM    THE    APPENINES. 

And  happiness  is  mine  to-night, 

Thus  springing  from  an  unseen  fount, 

And  breast  and  brain  are  warm  with  light, 
With  midnight  round  me  on  the  mount 

Its  rays,  like  thine,  fair  Dian,  flow 

From  far  that  Western  star  below. 

Dear  mother  !   in  thy  love  I  live  ; 

The  life  thou  gav'st  flows  yet  from  tbee— 
And,  sun-like,  thou  hast  power  to  give 

Life  to  the  earth,  air,  sea,  for  me  ! 
Though  wandering,  as  this  moon  above, 
I'm  dark  without  thy  constant  love. 


185 


TO  ERMENGARDE. 

I  KNOW  not  if  the  sunshine  waste — 

The  world  is  dark  since  thou  art  gone  I 
The  hours  are,  oh  !  so  leaden-paced  ! 

The  birds  sing,  and  the  stars  float  on, 
But  sing  not  well,  and  look  not  fair — 
A  weight  is  in  the  summer  air, 

And  sadness  in  the  sight  of  flowers, 
And  if  I  go  where  others  smile, 

Their  love  but  makes  me  think  of  ours, 
And  heaven  gets  my  heart  the  while. 
Like  one  upon  a  desert  isle, 

I  languish  of  the  weary  hours  ; 
I  never  thought  a  life  could  be 

So  flung  upon  one  hope,  as  mine,  dear  love,  on  thee  j 
16* 


186  TO    ERMENGARDE. 

I  sit  and  watch  the  summer  sky, 

There  comes  a  cloud  through  heaven  alone, 
A  thousand  stars  are  shining  nigh — 

It  feels  no  light,  but  darkles  on  ! 
Yet  now  it  nears  the  lovelier  moon, 

And,  flushmg  through  its  fringe  of  snow, 
There  steals  a  rosier  die,  and  soon 

Its  bosom  is  one  fiery  glow ! 
The  queen  of  life  within  it  lies! 

Yet  mark  how  lovers  meet  to  part  ! 
The  cloud  already  onward  flies, 

And  shadows  sink  into  its  heart, 
And  (dost  thou  see  them  where  thou  art?) 

Fade  fast,  fade  all  those  glorious  dyes  ! 
Its  light,  like  mine,  is  seen  no  more, 
And,  like  my  own,  its  heart  seems  darker  than  before ! 

Where  press  this  hour  those  fairy  feet, 
Where  look  this  hour  those  eyes  of  blue  ! 

What  music  in  thine  ear  is  sweet ! 

What  odor  breathes  thy  lattice  through  ! 

What  word  is  on  thy  lip  ?  What  tone — 

What  look — replying  to  thine  own  1 


TO    ERMENGARDE.  187 

Thy  steps  along  the  Danube  stray — 

Alas  it  seeks  an  orient  sea ! 
Thou  would'st  not  seem  so  far  away 

Flow'd  but  its  waters  back  to  me  1 
I  bless  the  slowly  coming  moon 

Because  its  eye  look'd  late  in  thine  ! 
I  envy  the  west  wind  of  June 

Whose  wings  will  bear  it  up  the  Rhine  ; 
The  flower  I  press  upon  my  brow 
Were  sweeter  if  its  like  perfumed  thy  chamber  now! 


188 


THE  SHUNAMITE.* 


IT  was  a  sultry  day  of  summer  time. 
The  sun  pour'd  down  upon  the  ripen'd  grain 
With  quivering  heat,  and  the  suspended  leaves 
Hung  motionless.     The  cattle  on  the  hills 
Stood  still, 'and  the  divided  flock  were  all 
Laying  their  nostrils  to  the  cooling  roots,   ) 
And  the  sky  look'/d  like  silver,  (and  it  seem'd 
f  As  if  the  air  had  fainted,)and  the  pulse 
Of  nature  had  run  down,  and  ceas'd  to  beat. 

"  Haste  thee,  my  child !"  the  Syrian  mother  said, 
"  Thy  father  is  athirst" — and  from  the  depths 
Of  the  cool  well  under  the  leaning  tree, 
2  Kings  iv.  18—37. 


THE     SHUNAMITE.  189 

She  drew  refreshing  water,  and  ™ith  thoughts 
Of  God's  sweet  goodness  stirring  at  her  heart, 
She  bless'd  her  beautiful  boy,  and  to  his  way 
Committed  him.     And  he  went  lightly  on, 
With  his  soft  hands  press'd  closely  to  the  cool 
Stone  vessel,  and  his  little  naked  feet 
Lifted  with  watchful  care,  and  o'er  the  hills, 
And  through  the  light  green  hollows,  where  the  lambs 
Go  for  the  tender  grass,  he  kept  his  way, 
Wiling  its  distance  with  his  simple  thoughts, 
Till,  in  the  wilderness  of  sheaves,  with  brows 
Throbbing  with  heat,  he  set  his  burthen  down. 

Childhood  is  restless  ever,  and  the  boy 
Stay'd  not  within  the  shadow  of  the  tree, 
But  with  a  joyous  industry  went  forth 
Into  the  reapers'  places,  and  bound  up 
His  tiny  sheaves,  and  plaited  cunningly 
The  pliant  withs  out  of  the  shining  straw, 
Cheering  their  labor  on,  till  they  forgot 
The  very  weariness  of  their  stooping  toil 
In  the  beguiling  of  his  earnest  mirth. 
Presently  he  was  silent,  and  his  eye 


190 


EARLY      POE 


Closed  as  with  dizzy  pain,  and  with  his  hand 
Press'd  hard  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  breast 
Heaving  with  the  suppression  of  a  cry, 
He  utter'd  a  faint  murmur,  and  fell  back 
Upon  the  loosen'd  sheaf,  insensible. 

They  bore  him  to  his  mother,  and  he  lay 
Upon  her  knees  till  noon — and  then  he  died  ! 
She  had  watch'd  every  breath,  and  kept  her  hand 
Soft  on  his  forehead,  and  gaz'd  in  upon 
The  dreamy  languor  of  his  listless  eye, 
And  she  had  laid  back  all  his  sunny  curls 
And  kiss'd  his  delicate  lip,  and  lifted  him 
Into  her  bosom,  till  her  heart  grew  strong — 
His  beauty  was  so  unlike  death!     She  leaned 
Over  him  now,  that  she  might  catch  the  low 
Sweet  music  of  his  breath,  that  she  had  learn'd 
To  love  when  he  was  slumbering  at  her  side 
In  his  unconscious  infancy — 

—"So  still! 

'Tis  a  soft  sleep  !   How  beautiful  he  lies, 
With  his  fair  forehead,  and  the  rosy  veins 
Playing  so  freshly  in  his  sunny  cheek  ! 


THE    SHUNAMITE.  191 

How  could  they  say  that  he  would  die  !    Oh  God  ! 
I  could  not  lo^se  him  !   I  have  treasured  all 
His  childhood  in  my  heart,  and  even  now, 
;  As  he  has  slept,  my  memory  has  been  there, 
Counting  like  treasure  all  his  winning  ways — 
His  unforgotten  sweetness  : — 

— "  Yet  so  still  !— 

How  like  this  breathless  slumber  is  to  death ! 
I  could  believe  that  in  that  bosom  now 
There  were  no  pulse — it  beats  so  languidly ! 
I  cannot  see  it  stir  ;  but  his  red  lip  ! — 
Death  would  not  be  so  very  beautiful ! 
And  that  half  smile — would  death  have  left  that  there  ? 
— And  should  I  not  have  felt  that  he  would  die  ? 
And  have  I  not  wept  over  him? — and  prayed 
Morning  and  night  for  him  1 — and  could  he  die  ? 
— No — God  will  keep  him  !     He  will  be  my  pride 
Many  long  years  to  come,  and  this  fair  hair 
Will  darken  like  his  father's,  and  his  eye 
Be  of  a  deeper  blue  when  he  is  grown  ; 
And  he  will  be  so  tall,  and  I  shall  look 
With  such  a  pride  upon  him  ! — He  to  die  !" 
And  the  fond  mother  lifted  his  soft  curls, 


192  EARLY     POEMS. 

And  smiled,  as  if  'twere  mockery  to  think 
That  such  fair  things  could  perish — 

— Suddenly 

Her  hand  shrunk  from  him,  and  the  color  fled 
From  her  fix'd  lip,  and  her  supporting  knees 
Were  shook  beneath  her  child.    Her  hand  had  touch'd 
His  forehead,  as  she  dallied  with  his  hair — 
And  it  was  cold — like  clay  !     Slow,  very  slow, 
Came  the  misgiving  that  her  child  was  dead. 
She  sat  a  moment,  and  her  eyes  were  clos'd 
In  a  dumb  prayer  for  strength,  and  then  she  took 
His  little  hand  and  press'd  it  earnestly — 
And  put  her  lip  to  his — and  look'd  again 
Fearfully  on  him — and  then,  bending  low, 
She  whisper'd  in  his  ear,  "  My  son  ! — My  son  !" 
And  as  the  echo  died,  and  not  a  sound 
Broke  on  the  stillness,  and  he  lay  there  still 
Motionless  on  her  knee — the  truth  would   come ! 
And  with  a  sharp,  quick  cry,  as  if  her  heart 
Were  crush'd,  she  lifted  him  and  held  him  close 
Into  her  bosom — with  a  mother's  thought — 
As  if  death  had  no  power  to  touch  him  there  ! 


THE    SHUNAMITE.  193 

The  man  of  God  came  forth,  and  led  the  child 
Unto  his  mother,  and  went  on  his  way. 
And  he  was  there — her  beautiful — her  own — 
Living  and  smiling  on  her — with  his  arms 
Folded  about  her  neck,  and  his  warm  breath 
Breathing  upon  her  lips,  and  in  her  ear 
The  music  of  his  gentle  voice  once  more  ! 


17 


194 


ABSALOM. 

THE  waters  slept.     Night's  silvery  veil  hung  low 

On  Jordan's  bosom,  and  the  eddies  curled 

Their  glassy  rings  beneath  it,  like  the  still, 

Unbroken  beating  of  the  sleeper's  pulse. 

The  reeds  bent  down  the  stream ;  the  willow  leaves, 

With  a  soft  cheek  upon  the  lulling  tide, 

Forgot  the  lifting  winds  ;  and  the  long  stems, 

Whose  flowers  the  water,  like  a  gentle  nurse, 

Bears  on  its  bosom,  quietly  gave  way, 

And  leaned,  in  graceful  attitudes,  to  rest. 

SHow  strikingly  the  course  of  nature  tells, 
By  its  light  heed  of  human  suffering, 
That  it  was  fashioned  for  a  happier  world ! 


A  B  S  AL  OM  .  195 

King  David's  limbs  were  weary.     He  had  fled 
From  far  Jerusalem  ;  and  now  he  stood, 
With  his  faint  people,  for  a  little  rest 
Upon  the  shore  of  Jordan.     The  light  wind 
Of  morn  was  stirring,  and  he  bared  his  brow 
To  its  refreshing  breath  ;  for  he  had  worn 
The  mourner's  covering,  and  he  had  not  felt 
That  he  could  see  his  people  until  now. 
They  gather'd  round  him  on  the  fresh  green  bank, 
And  spoke  their  kindly  words  ;  and,  as  the  sun 
Rose  up  in  heaven,  he  knelt  among  them  there, 
And  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands  to  pray. 
Oh  !  when  the  heart  is  full — when  bitter  thoughts 
Come  crowding  thickly  up  for  utterance, 
And  the  poor  common  words  of  courtesy 
Are  such  a  very  mockery — how  much 
The  bursting  heart  may  pour  itself  in  prayer  ! 
He  pray'd  for  Israel — and  his  voice  went  up 
Strongly  and  fervently.     He  pray'd  for  those 
Whose  love  had  been  his  shield — and  his  deep  tones 
Grew  tremulous.     But,  oh  !   for  Absalom — 
For  his  estranged,  misguided  Absalom — 
The  proud,  bright  being,  who  had  burst  away 


196  EARLY    POEMS. 

In  all  his  princely  beauty,  to  defy 

The  heart  that  cherished  him — for  him  he  poured, 

In  agony  that  would  not  be  controlled, 

Strong  supplication,  and  forgave  him  there, 

Before  his  God,  for  his  deep  sinfulness. 

***** 

The  pall  was  settled.     He  who  slept  beneath 
Was  straightened  for  the  grave  ;  and,  as  the  folds 
Sunk  to  the  still  proportions,  they  betrayed 
The  matchless  symmetry  of  Absalom. 
His  hair  was  yet  unshorn,  and  silken  curls 
Were  floating  round  the  tassels  as  they  swayed 
To  the  admitted  air,  as  glossy  now 
As  when,  in  hours  of  gentle  dalliance,  bathing 
The  snowy  fingers  of  Judea's  daughters. 
His  helm  was  at  his  feet :  his  banner,  soiled 
With  trailing  through  Jerusalem,  was  laid, 
Reversed,  beside  him:  and  the  jewelled  hilt, 
Whose  diamonds  lit  the  passage  of  his  blade, 
Rested,  like  mockery,  on  his  covered  brow. 
The  soldiers  of  the  king  trod  to  and  fro, 
Clad  in  the  garb  of  battle  ;  and  their  chief, 
The  mighty  Joab,  stood  beside  the  bier, 


ABSALOM.  197 

And  gazed  upon  the  dark  pall  steadfastly, 

As  if  he  feared  the  slumberer  might  stir. 

A  slow  step  startled  him.     He  grasped  his  blade 

As  if  a  trumpet  rang  ;  but  the  bent  form 

Of  David  entered,  and  he  gave  command, 

In  a  low  tone,  to  his  few  followers, 

And  left  him  with  his  dead.     The  king  stood  still 

Till  the  last  echo  died  :  then,  throwing  off 

The  sackcloth  from  his  brow,  and  laying  back 

The  pall  from  the  still  features  of  his  child, 

He  bowed  his  head  upon  him,  and  broke  forth 

In  the  resistless  eloquence  of  wo  : 

"  Alas  !   my  noble  boy !  that  thou  should'st  die  ! 

Thou,  who  wert  made  so  beautifully  fair! 
That  death  should  settle  in  thy  glorious  eye, 

And  leave  his  stillness  in  this  clustering  hair  1 
How  could  he  mark  thee  for  the  silent  tomb, 
My  proud  boy,  Absalom  ! 

"  Cold  is  thy  brow,  my  son  !  and  I  am  chill, 

As  to  my  bosom  I  have  tried  to  press  thee  ! 
How  was  I  wont  to  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
17* 


198  EARLY    POEMS. 

Like  a  rich  harp-string,  yearning  to  caress  thee, 
And  hear  thy  sweet  "  my  father  /"  from  these  dumb 
And  cold  lips,  Absalom ! 

41  The  grave  hath  won  thee.     I  shall  hear  the  gush 
Of  music,  and  the  voices  of  the  young; 

And  life  will  pass  me  in  the  mantling  blush, 
And  the  dark  tresses  to  the  soft  winds  flung ; — 

But  thou  no  more,  with  thy  sweet  voice,  shalt  come 
To  meet  me,  Absalom  ! 

"  And  oh  !  when  I  am  stricken,  and  my  heart, 
Like  a  bruised  reed,  is  waiting  to  be  broken, 

How  will  its  love  for  thee,  as  I  depart, 

Yearn  for  thine  ear  to  drink  its  last  deep  token ! 

It  were  so  sweet,  amid  death's  gathering  gloom, 
To  see  thee,  Absalom  ! 

"And  now,  farewell!  'Tis  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
With  death  so  like  a  gentle  slumber  on  thee  ; — 

And  thy  dark  sin  ! — Oh  !  I  could  drink  the  cup, 
If  from  this  wo  its  bitterness  had  won  thee. 


ABSALOM.  199 

May  God  have  called  thee,  like  a  wanderer,  home, 
My  erring  Absalom  !" 

He  covered  up  his  face,  and  bowed  himself 
A  moment  on  his  child  :  then,  giving  him 
A  look  of  melting  tenderness,  he  clasped 
His  hands  convulsively,  as  if  in  prayer  ; 
And,  as  a  strength  were  given  him  of  God, 
He  rose  up  calmly,  and  composed  the  pall 
Firmly  and  decently,  and  left  him  there, 
As  if  his  rest  had  been  a  breathing  sleep. 


200 


HAGAR  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


THE  morning  broke.     Light  stole  upon  the  clouds 
With  a  strange  beauty.     Earth  received  again 
Its  garment  of  a  thousand  dies  ;  and  leaves, 
And  delicate  blossoms,  and  the  painted  flowers, 
And  every  thing  that  bendeth  to  the  dew, 
And  stirreth  with  the  daylight,  lifted  up 
Its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  that  sweet  morn. 

j  All  things  are  dark  to  sorrow ;'  and  the  light 
And  loveliness,  and  fragrant  air  were  sad 
To  the  dejected  Hagar.     The  moist  earth 
Was  pouring  odours  from  its  spicy  pores, 
And  the  young  birds  were  singing  as  if  life 


HAGAR    IN    THE    WILDERNESS.  20 1 

Were  a  new  thing  to  them  ;  but  oh !  it  came 
Upon  her  heart  like  discord,  and  she  felt 
How  cruelly  it  tries  a  broken  heart, 
To  see  a  mirth  in  any  thing  it  loves. 
She  stood  at  Abraham's  tent.    Her  lips  were  pressed 
Till  the  blood  started  ;  and  the  wandering  veins 
Of  her  transparent  forehead  were  swelled  out, 
As  if  her  pride  would  burst  them.     Her  dark  eye 
Was  clear  and  tearless,  and  the  light  of  heaven, 
Which  made  its  language  legible,  shot  back, 
From  her  long  lashes,  as  it  had  been  flame. 
Her  noble  boy  stood  by  her,  with  his  hand 
Clasped  in  her  own,  and  his  round,  delicate  feet, 
Scarce  trained  to  balance  on  the  tented  floor, 
Sandaled  for  journeying.     He  had  looked  up 
Into  his  mother's  face  until  he  caught 
The  spirit  there,  and  his  young  heart  was  swelling 
Beneath  his  dimpled  bosom,  and  his  form 
/  Straightened  up  proudly  in  his  tiny  wrath, 
I  As  if  his  light  proportions  would  have  swelled, 
^Had  they  but  matched  his  spirit,  to  the.man. 

Why  bends  the  patriarch  as  he  cometh  now 
Upon  his  staff  so  wearily  ]  His  beard 


202 


EARLY     POEMS. 


Is  low  upon  his  breast,  and  on  his  high  brow, 
So  written  with  the  converse  of  his  God, 
Beareth  the  swollen  vein  of  agony. 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  wonted  step 
Of  vigor  is  not  there  ;  and,  though  the  morn 
Is  passing  fair  and  beautiful,  he  breathes 
Its  freshness  as  it  were  a  pestilence. 
Oh !  man  may  bear  with  suffering :  his  heart 
Is  a  strong  thing,  and  godlike  in  the  grasp 
Of  pain  that  wrings  mortality  ;  but  tear 
One  chord  affection  clings  to,  part  one  tie 
That  binds  him  to  a  woman's  delicate  love, 
And  his  great  spirit  yieldeth  like  a  reed. 

He  gave  to  her  the  water  and  the  bread, 
But  spoke  no  word,  and  trusted  not  himself 
To  look  upon  her  face,  but  laid  his  hand 
In  silent  blessing  on  the  fair-haired  boy, 
And  left  her  to  her  lot  of  loneliness. 

Should  Hagar  weep  1     May  slighted  woman  turn, 
And,  as  a  vine  the  oak  hath  shaken  off, 
Bend  lightly  to  her  leaning  trust  again  ? 


HAGAR    IN    THE    WILDERNESS.  203 

O  no !  by  all  her  loveliness — by  all 

That  makes  life  poetry  and  beauty,  no ! 

Make  her  a  slave  ;  steal  from  her  rosy  cheek 

By  needless  jealousies  ;  let  the  last  star 

Leave  her  a  watcher  by  your  couch  of  pain  ; 

Wrong  her  by  petulance,  suspicion,  all 

That  makes  her  cup  a  bitterness— yet  give 

One  evidence  of  love,  and  earth  has  not 

An  emblem  of  devotedness  like  hers. 

But  oh !  estrange  her  once — it  boots  not  how — 

By  wrong  or  silence,  any  thing  that  tells 

A  change  has  come  upon  your  tenderness, — 

And  there  is  not  a  high  thing  out  of  heaven 

Her  pride  o'ermastereth  not. 

She  went  her  way  with  a  strong  step  and  slow; 
Her  pressed  lip  arched,  and  her  clear  eye  undimmed, 
As  it  had  been  a  diamond,  and  her  form 
Borne  proudly  up,  as  if  her  heart  breathed  through. 
Her  child  kept  on  in  silence,  though  she  pressed 
His  hand  till  it  was  pained  :  for  he  had  caught, 
As  I  have  said,  her  spirit,  and  the  seed 
Of  a  stern  nation  had  been  breathed  upon. 


204  EARLY    POEMS. 

The  morning  past,  and  Asia's  sun  rode  up 
In  the  clear  heaven,(and  every  beam  was  heat. 
The  cattle  of  the  hills  were  in  the  shade, 
And  the  bright  plumage  of  the  Orient  lay 
On  beating  bosoms  in  her  spicy  trees. 
It  was  an  hour  of  rest;  but  Hagar  found 
No  shelter  in  the  wilderness,  and  on 
She  kept  her  weary  way,  until  the  boy 
Hung  down  his  head,  and  opened  his  parched  lips 
For  water;  but  she  could  not  give  it  him. 
She  laid  him  down  beneath  the  sultry  sky, — 
For  it  was  better  than  the  close,  hot  breath 
Of  the  thick  pines, — and  tried  to  comfort  him  ; 
But  he  was  sore  athirst,  and  his  blue  eyes, 
Were  dim  and  bloodshot,  and  he  could  not  know 
Why  God  denied  him  water  in  the  wild. 
She  sat  a  little  longer,  and  he  grew 
Ghastly  and  faint,  as  if  he  would  have  died. 
It  was  too  much  for  her.     She  lifted  him, 
And  bore  him  farther  on,  and  laid  his  head 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  a  desert  shrub  ; 
And,  shrouding  up  her  face,  she  went  away, 
And  sat  to  watch,  where  he  could  see  her  not, 


HAGAR    IN    THE    WILDERNESS.  205 

Till  he  should  die ;  and,  watching  him,  she  mourned : — 

"  God  stay  thee  in  thine  agony,  my  boy  ! 
I  cannot  see  thee  die  ;  I  cannot  brook 

Upon  thy  brow  to  look, 
And  see  death  settle  on  my  cradle  joy. 
How  have  I  drunk  the  light  of  thy  blue  eye  ! 

And  could  I  see  thee  die  ? 

"  I  did  not  dream  of  this  when  thou  wast  straying, 
Like  an  unbound  gazelle,  among  the  flowers  ; 

Or  wearing  rosy  hours, 
By  the  rich  gush  of  water-sources  playing, 
Then  sinking  weary  to  thy  smiling  sleep, 

So  beautiful  and  deep. 

"  Oh  no !  and  when  I  watched  by  thee  the  while, 
And  saw  thy  bright  lip  curling  in  thy  dream, 

And  thought  of  the  dark  stream 
In  my  own  land  of  Egypt,  the  far  Nile, 
How  prayed  I  that  my  father's  land  might  be 

An  heritage  for  thee  ! 
18 


206  EARLY     POEMS. 

"  And  now  the  grave  for  its  cold  breast  hath  won  thee, 
And  thy  white,  delicate  limbs  the  earth  will  press ; 

And  oh  !  my  last  caress 

Must  feel  thee  cold,  for  a  chill  hand  is  on  thee. 
How  can  I  leave  my  boy,  so  pillowed  there 

Upon  his  clustering  hair !" 

She  stood  beside  the  well  her  God  had  given 
To  gush  in  that  deep  wilderness,  and  bathed 
The  forehead  of  her  child'until  he  laughed 
In  his  reviving  happiness, land  lisped 
His  infant  thought  of  gladness  at  the  sight 
Of  the  cool  plashing  of  his  mother's  hand. 


207 


THE  WIDOW  OF  NALNV 


THE  Roman  sentinel  stood  helmed  and  tall 
Beside  the  gate  of  Nain.     The  busy  tread 
Of  comers  to  the  city  mart  was  done, 
For  it  was  almost  noon,  and  a  dead  heat 
QuiverM  upon  the  fine  and  sleeping  dust, 
And  the  cold  snake  crept  panting  from  the  wall, 
And  bask'd  his  scaly  circles  in  the  sun. 
Upon  his  spear  the  soldier  lean'd,  and  kept 
His  idle  watch,  and,  as  his  drowsy  dream 
Was  broken  by  the  solitary  foot 
Of  some  poor  mendicant,  he  rais'd  his  head 
To  curse  him  for  a  tributary  Jew, 
And  slumberously  dozed  on. 

*  Luke,  chap.  vii. 


208  EARLY     POEMS. 

'Twas  now  high  noon. 
The  dull,  low  murmur  of  a  funeral 
Went  through  the  city — the  sad  sound  of  feet 
Unmix'd  with  voices — and  the  sentinel 
Shook  off  his  slumber,  and  gazed  earnestly 
Up  the  wide  street  along  whose  paved  way 
The  silent  throng  crept  slowly.     They  came  on, 
Bearing  a  body  heavily  on  its  bier, 
And  by  the  crowd  that  in  the  burning  sun 
Walk'd  with  forgetful  sadness,  'twas  of  one 
Mourn'd  with  uncomm&n  sorrow.     The  broad  gate 
Swung  on  its  hinges,  and  the  Roman  bent 
His  spear-point  downwards  as  the  bearers  past 
Bending  beneath  their  burthen.     There  was  one— 
Only  one  mourner.     Close  behind  the  bier 
Crumpling  the  pall  up  in  her  wither'd  hands, 
Follow'd  an  aged  woman.     Her  short  steps 
Falter'd  with  weakness,  and  a  broken  moan 
Fell  from  her  lips,  thicken'd  convulsively 
As  her  heart  bled  afresh.     The  pitying  crowd 
Follow'd  apart,  but  no  one  spoke  to  her. 
She  had  no  kinsmen.     She  had  lived  alone — 
A  widow  with  one  son.     He  was  her  all — 


THE    WIDOW    OF    NAIN.  209 

The  only  tie  she  had  in  the  wide  world — 

And  he  was  dead.     They  could  not  comfort  her. 

Jesus  drew  near  to  Nain  as  from  the  gate 
The  funeral  came  forth.     His  lips  were  pale 
With  the  noon's  sultry  heat.     The  beaded  sweat 
Stood  thickly  on  his  brow,  and  on  the  worn 
And  simple  latchets  of  his  sandals  lay 
Thick  the  white  dust  of  travel.     He  had  come 
Since  sunrise  from  Capernaum,  staying  not 
To  wet  his  lips  by  green  Bethsaida's  pool, 
Nor  wash  his  feet  in  Kishon's  silver  springs, 
Nor  turn  him  southward  upon  Tabor's  side 
To  catch  Gilboa's  light  and  spicy  breeze. 
Genesareth  stood  cool  upon  the  East, 
Fast  by  the  sea  of  Galilee,  and  there 
The  weary  traveller  might  bide  till  eve, 
And  on  the  alders  of  Bethulia's  plains 
The  grapes  of  Palestine  hung  ripe  and  wild, 
Yet  turn'd  he  not  aside,  but  gazing  on 
From  every  swelling  mount,  he  saw  afar 
Amid  the  hills  the  humble  spires  of  Nain, 

The  place  of  his  next  errand,  and  the  path 

18* 


210  EARLY     POEMS. 

Touch'd  not  Bethulia,  and  a  league  away 
Upon  the  East  lay  pleasant  Galilee. 

Forth  from  the  city-gate  the  pitying  crowd 

Follow'd  the  stricken  mourner.     They  came  near 

The  place  of  burial,  and,  with  straining  hands, 

Closer  upon  her  breast  she  clasp'd  the  pall, 

And  with  a  gasping  sob,  quick  as  a  child's, 

And  an  inquiring  wildness  flashing  through 

The  thin,  gray  lashes  of  her  fever'd  eyes, 

She  came  where  Jesus  stood  beside  the  way. 

He  look'd  upon  her,  and  his  heart  was  moved. 

"  Weep  not !"  he  said,  and,  as  they  stay'd  the  bier, 

And  at  his  bidding  laid  it  at  his  feet, 

He  gently  drew  the  pall  from  out  her  grasp 

And  laid  it  back  in  silence  from  the  dead. 

With  troubled  wonder  the  mute  throng  drew  near, 

And  gaz'd  on  his  calm  looks.     A  minute's  space 

He  stood  and  pray'd.     Then  taking  the  cold  hand 

He  said,  "  Arise  !"     And  instantly  the  breast 

Heav'd  in  its  cerements,  and  a  sudden  flush 

Ran  through  the  lines  of  the  divided  lips, 


THE      WIDOW     OF     NAIN. 

And,  with  a  murmur  of  his  mother's  name, 
He  trembled  and  sat  upright  in  his  shroud. 
And,  while  the  mourner  hung  upon  his  neck, 
Jesus  went  calmly  on  his  way  to  Nain. 


212 


DAWN. 


"  That  line  I  learned  not  in  the  old  sad  song." 

CHARLES   LAMB. 


THROW  up  the  window !   'Tis  a  morn  for  life 
In  its  most  subtle  luxury.     The  air 
Is  like  a  breathing  from  a  rarer  world ; 
And  the  south  wind  is  like  a  gentle  friend, 
Parting  the  hair  so  softly  on  my  brow. 
It  has  come  over  gardens,  and  the  flowers 
That  kissed  it  are  betrayed  ;  for  as  it  parts, 
With  its  invisible  fingers,  my  loose  hair, 
I  know  it  has  been  trifling  with  the  rose, 
And  stooping  to  the  violet.     There  is  joy 
For  all  God's  creatures  in  it.     The  wet  leaves 


DAWN.  213 

Are  stirring  at  its  touch,  and  birds  are  singing 
As  if  to  breathe  were  music,  and  the  grass 
Sends  up  its  modest  odor  with  the  dew, 
Like  the  small  tribute  of  humility. 

I  had  awoke  from  an  unpleasant  dream, 
And  light  was  welcome  to,me.     I  looked  out 
To  feel  the  common  air,  and  when  the  breath 
Of  the  delicious  morning  met  my  brow 
Cooling  its  fever,  and  the  pleasant  sun 
Shone  on  familiar  objects,  it  was  like 
The  feeling  of  the  captive  who  comes  forth 
From  darkness  to  the  cheerful  light  of  day. 
Oh!  could  we  wake  from  sorrow  ;  were  it  all 
A  troubled  dream  like  this,  to  cast  aside 
Like  an  untimely  garment  with  the  morn  ; 
Could  the  long  fever  of  the  heart  be  cooled 
By  a  sweet  breath  from  nature ;  or  the  gloom 
Of  a  bereaved  affection  pass  away 
With  looking  on  the  lively  tint  of  flowers —   \ 
How  lightly  were  the  spirit  reconciled] 
To  make  this  beautiful,  bright  world  its  home  ! 


214 


SATURDAY  AFTERNOON. 

(A  PICTURE.) 


I  LOVE  to  look  on  a  scene  like  this, 

Of  wild  and  careless  play, 
And  persuade  myself  that  I  am  not  old, 

And  my  locks  are  not  yet  gray  ; 
For  it  stirs  the  blood  in  an  old  man's  heart, 

And  makes  his  pulses  fly, 
To  catch  the  thrill  of  a  happy  voice, 

And  the  light  of  a  pleasant  eye. 

I  have  walked  the  world  for  fourscore  years  ; 

And  they  say  that  I  am  old, 
And  my  heart  is  ripe  for  the  reaper,  Death, 

And  my  years  are  well  nigh  told. 


SATURDAY    AFTERNOON.  215 

It  is  very  true  ;  it  is  very  true  ; 

I'm  old,  and  "  I  'bide  my  time  :" 
But  my  heart  will  leap  at  a  scene  like  this 

And  I  half  renew  my  prime. 

Play  on,  play  on ;  I  am  with  you  there, 

In  the  midst  of  your  merry  ring; 
I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  daring  jump, 

And  rush  of  the  breathless  swing. 
I  hide  with  you  in  the  fragrant  hay, 

And  I  whoop  the  smothered  call, 
And  my  feet  slip  up  on  the  seedy  floor, 

And  I  care  not  for  the  fall. 

ikam  willing  to  die  when  my  time  shall  come, 

And  I  shall  be  glad  to  go  ; 
For  the  world  at  best  is  a  weary  place, 

And  my  pulse  is  getting  low  ; 
But  the  grave  is  dark,  and  the  heart  will  fail 

In  treading  its  gloomy  way  ; 
And  it  wiles  my  heart  from  its  dreariness, 

To  see  the  young  so  gay. 


216 


A  CHILD'S  FIRST  IMPRESSION  OF  A  STAR. 


SHE  had  been  told  that  God  made  all  the  stars 
That  twinkled  up  in  heaven,  and  now  she  stood 
Watching  the  coming  of  the  twilight  on, 
As  if  it  were  a  new  and  perfect  world, 
And  this  were  its  first  eve.     She  stood  alone 
By  the  low  window,  with  the  silken  lash 
Of  her  soft  eye  upraised,  and  her  sweet  mouth 
Half  parted  with  the  new  and  strange  delight 
Of  beauty  that  she  could  not  comprehend, 
And  had  not  seen  before.     The  purple  folds 
Of  the  low  sunset  clouds,  and  the  blue  sky 
That  looked  so  still  and  delicate  above, 
Filled  her  young  heart  with  gladness,  and  the  eve 
Stole  on  with  its  deep  shadows,  and  she  still 


FIRST   IMPRESSION   OP    A    STAR.        217 

Stood  looking  at  the  west  with  that  half-smile, 
As  if  a  pleasant  thought  were  at  her  heart. 
Presently,  in  the  edge  of  the  last  tint 
Of  sunset,  where  the  blue  was  melted  in 
To  the  faint  golden  mellowness,  a  star 
Stood  suddenly.     A  laugh  of  wild  delight 
Burst  from  her  lips,  and  putting  up  her  hands, 
Her  simple  thought  broke  forth  expressively — 
"  Father,  dear  father,  God  has  made  a  star!" 


19 


218 


MAY. 

OH  the  merry  May  has  pleasant  hours, 

And  dreamily  they  glide, 
As  if  they  floated  like  the  leaves 

Upon  a  silver  tide. 
The  trees  are  full  of  crimson  buds, 

And  the  woods  are  full  of  birds, 
And  the  waters  flow  to  music 

Like  a  tune  with  pleasant  words. 

The  verdure  of  the  meadow-land 

Is  creeping  to  the  hills, 
The  sweet,  blue-bosom'd  violets 

Are  blooming  by  the  rills  ; 


MAY. 


219 


The  lilac  has  a  load  of  balm 

For  every  wind  that  stirs, 
And  the  larch  stands  green  and  beautiful 

Amid  the  sombre  firs. 

There's  perfume  upon  every  wind — 

Music  in  every  tree — 
Dews  for  the  moisture-loving  flowers — 

Sweets  for  the  sucking  bee  ; 
The  sick  come  forth  for  the  healing  breeze, 

The  young  are  gathering  flowers ; 
And  life  is  a  tale  of  poetry, 

That  is  told  by  golden  hours. 

If  'tis  not  true  philosophy, 

That  the  spirit  when  set  free 
Still  lingers  about  its  olden  home, 

In  the  flower  and  the  tree, 
It  is  very  strange  that  our  pulses  thrill 

At  the  tint  of  a  voiceless  thing, 
And  our  hearts  yearn  so  with  tenderness 

In  the  beautiful  time  of  Spring. 


220 


ON  WITNESSING  A  BAPTISM. 


SHE  stood  up  in  the  meekness  of  a  heart 
Resting  on  God,  and  held  her  fair  young  child 
Upon  her  bosom,  with  its  gentle  eyes 
Folded  in  sleep,  as  if  its  soul  had  gone 
To  whisper  the  baptismal  vow  in  heaven. 
The  prayer  went  up  devoutly,  and  the  lips 
Of  the  good  man  glowed  fervently  with  faith 
That  it  would  be,  even  as  he  had  pray'd, 
And  the  sweet  child  be  gathered  to  the  fold 
Of  Jesus.     As  the  holy  words  went  on 
Her  lips  mov'd  silently,  and  tears,  fast  tears, 
Stole  from  beneath  her  lashes,  and  upon 
The  forehead  of  the  beautiful  child  lay  soft 
With  the  baptismal  water.     Then  I  thought 


ON   WITNESSING   A    BAPTISM.  221 

That,  to  the  eye  of  God,  that  mother's  tears 
Would  be  a  deeper  covenant,  which  sin 
And  the  temptations  of  the  world,  and  death, 
Would  leave  unbroken,  and  that  she  would  know 
In  the  clear  light  of  heaven,  how  very  strong 
The  prayer  which  press'd  them  from  her  heart  had 

been 
In  leading  its  young  spirit  up  to  God. 


19* 


222 


THE  ANNOYER. 


"  Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever." 

SHELLEY. 


LOVE  knoweth  every  form  of  air, 

And  every  shape  of  earth, 
And  comes,  unbidden,  everywhere, 

Like  thought's  mysterious  birth. 
The  moonlit  sea  and  the  sunset  sky 

Are  written  with  Love's  words, 
And  you  hear  his  voice  unceasingly, 

Like  song  in  the  time  of  birds. 

He  peeps  into  the  warrior's  heart 


THE    ANNOYER.  223 

From  the  tip  of  a  stooping  plume, 
And  the  serried  spears,  and  the  many  men 

May  not  deny  him  room. 
He'll  come  to  his  tent  in  the  weary  night, 

And  be  busy  in  his  dream  ; 
And  he'll  float  to  his  eye  in  morning  light 

Like  a  fay  on  a  silver  beam. 

He  hears  the  sound  of  the  hunter's  gun, 

And  rides  on  the  echo  back, 
And  sighs  in  his  ear,  like  a  stirring  leaf, 

And  flits  in  his  woodland  track. 
The  shade  of  the  wood,  and  the  sheen  of  the  river 

The  cloud,  and  the  open  sky — 
He  will  haunt  them  all  with  his  subtle  quiver: 

Like  the  light  of  your  very  eye. 

The  fisher  hangs  over  the  leaning  boat, 

And  ponders  the  silver  sea, 
For  Love  is  under  the  surface  hid, 

And  a  speli  of  thought  has  he, 
He  heaves  the  wave  like  a  bosom  sweet, 
And  speaks  in  the  ripple  low, 


224  EARLY    POEMS. 

Till  the  bait  is  gone  from  the  crafty  line, 
And  the  hook  hangs  bare  below. 

He  blurs  the  print  of  the  scholar's  book, 

And  intrudes  in  the  maiden's  prayer, 
And  profanes  the  cell  of  the  holy  man, 

In  the  shape  of  a  lady  fair. 
In  the  darkest  night,  and  the  bright  daylight, 

In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
In  every  home  of  human  thought, 

Will  love  be  lurking  nigh. 


225 


ROA.RING  BROOK. 

(A   PASSAGE   OF   SCENERY    IN    CONNECTICUT.) 


IT  was  a  mountain  stream  that  with  the  leap 

Of  its  impatient  waters  had  wora  out 

A  channel  in  the  rock,  and  wash'd  away 

The  earth  that  had  upheld  the  tall  old  trees, 

Till  it  was  darken'd  with  the  shadowy  arch 

Of  the  o'er-leaning  branches.     Here  and  there 

It  loiter'd  in  a  broad  and  limpid  pool 

That  circled  round  demurely,  and  anon 

Sprung  violently  over  where  the  rock 

Fell  suddenly,  and  bore  its  bubbles  on, 

Till  they  were  broken  by  the  hanging  moss, 

As  anger  with  a  gentle  word  grows  calm. 

In  spring-time,  when  the  snows  were  coming  down, 


226  EARLY     POEMS. 

And  in  the  flooding  of  the  Autumn  rains, 

No  foot  might  enter  there — but  in  the  hot 

And  thirsty  summer,  when  the  fountains  slept, 

You  could  go  up  its  channel  in  the  shade, 

To  the  far  sources,  with  a  brow  as  cool 

As  in  the  grotto  of  the  anchorite. 

Here  when  an  idle  student  have  I  come, 

And  in  a  hollow  of  the  rock  lain  down 

And  mus'd  until  the  eventide,  or  read 

Some  fine  old  poet  till  my  nook  became 

A  haunt  of  faery,  or  the  busy  flow 

Of  water  to  my  spell-bewilder'd  ear 

Seem'd  like  the  din  of  some  gay  tournament. 

Pleasant  have  been  such  hours,  and  tho'  the  wise 

Have  said  that  I  was  indolent,  and  they 

Who  taught  me  have  reprov'd  me  that  I  play'd 

The  truant  in  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

I  deem  it  true  philosophy  in  him 

Whose  path  is  in  the  rude  and  busy  world, 

To  loiter  with  these  wayside  comforters. 


227 


LINES  ON  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

JANUARY   1,   1825. 


FLEETLY  hath  past  the  year.     The  seasons  came 
Duly  as  they  are  wont — the  gentle  Spring, 
And  the  delicious  Summer,  and  the  cool, 
Rich  Autumn,  with  the  nodding  of  the  grain, 
And  Winter,  like  an  old  and  hoary  man, 
Frosty  and  stiff — and  so  are  chronicled — 
We  have  found  beauty  in  the  new  green  leaf, 
And  in  the  first  blown  violets  ;  we  have  drunk 
Cool  water  from  the  rock,  and  in  the  shade 
Sunk  to  the  noon-tide  slumber ; — we  have  eat 
The  mellow  fruitage  of  the  bending  tree, 
And  girded  to  our  pleasant  wanderings 
When  the  cool  wind  came  freshly  from  the  hills ; 


228  EARLY     POEMS. 

And  when  the  tinting  of  the  Autumn  leaves 

Had  faded  from  its  glory,  we  have  sat 

By  the  good  fires  of  Winter,  and  rejoiced 

Over  the  fulness  of  the  gathered  sheaf. 

"  God  hath  been  good  to  us  !"     'Tis  He  whose  hand 

Moulded  the  sunny  hills,  and  hollowed  out 

The  shelter  of  the  valleys,  and  doth  keep 

The  fountains  in  their  secret  places  cool  ; 

And  it  is  He  who  leadeth  up  the  sun 

And  ordereth  the  starry  influences, 

And  tempereth  the  keenness  of  the  frost — 

And  therefore,  in  the  plenty  of  the  feast, 

And  in  the  lifting  of  the  cup,  let  HIM 

Have  praises  for  the  well  completed  year. 


229 


LINES  ON  THE  NEW  YEAR 

JANUARY   1,    1826. 


WINTER  is  come  again.     The  sweet  south-west 
Is  a  forgotten  wind,  and  the  strong  earth 
Has  laid  aside  its  mantle  to  be  bound 
By  the  frost  fetter.     There  is  not  a  sound, 
Save  of  the  skaiter's  heel,  and  there  is  laid 
An  icy  finger  on  the  lip  of  streams, 
And  the  clear  icicle  hangs  cold  and  still, 
And  the  snow-fall  is  noiseless  as  a  thought, 
Spring  has  a  rushing  sound,  and  Summer  sends 
Many  sweet  voices  with  its  odors  out, 
And  Autumn  rustleth  its  decaying  robe 
With  a  complaining  whisper.     Winter's  dumb ! 
God  made  his  ministry  a  silent  one, 
20 


230  EARLY    POEMS. 

And  he  has  given  him  a  foot  of  steel 
And  an  unlovely  aspect,  and  a  breath 
Sharp  to  the  senses — and  we  know  that  He 
Tempereth  well,  and  hath  a  meaning  hid 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  hand.     Look  up ! 
And  it  shall  be  interpreted.     Your  home 
Hath  a  temptation  now.     There  is  no  voice 
Of  waters  with  beguiling  for  your  ear, 
And  the  cool  forest  and  the  meadows  green 
Witch  not  your  feet  away  ;  and  in  the  dells 
There  are  no  violets,  and  upon  the  hills 
There  are  no  sunny  places  to  lie  down. 
You  must  go  in,  and  by  your  cheerful  fire 
Wait  for  the  offices  of  love,  and  hear 
Accents  of  human  tenderness,  and  feast 
Your  eye  upon  the  beauty  of  the  young. 
It  is  a  season  for  the  quiet  thought, 
And  the  still  reckoning  with  thyself.     The  year 
Gives  back  the  spirits  of  its  dead,  and  time 
Whispers  the  history  of  its  vanished  hours  ; 
And  the  heart,  calling  its  affections  up, 
Counteth  its  wasted  treasure.     Life  stands  still 


LINES    ON    THE    NEW    YEAR.  231 

And  settles  like  a  fountain,  and  the  eye 
Sees  clearly  through  its  depths,  and  noteth  all 
That  stirred  its  troubled  waters.     It  is  well 
That  Winter  with  the  dying  year  should  come  ! 


232 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  YOUNG  GIRL 


'Tis  difficult  to  feel  that  she  is  dead. 

Her  presence,  like  the  shadow  of  a  wing 

That  is  just  lessening  in  the  upper  sky, 

Lingers  upon  us.     We  can  hear  her  voice, 

And  for  her  step  we  listen,  and  the  eye 

Looks  for  her  wonted  coming  with  a  strange, 

Forgetful  earnestness.     We  cannot  feel 

That  she  will  no  more  come — that  from  her  cheek 

The  delicate  flush  has  faded,  and  the  light 

Dead  in  her  soft  dark  eye,  and  on  her  lip, 

That  was  so  exquisitely  pure,  the  dew 

Of  the  damp  grave  has  fallen !     Who,  so  lov'd, 

Is  left  among  the  living  ?     Who  hath  walk'd 

The  world  with  such  a  winning  loveliness, 


ON    THE    DEATH    OP    A    YOUNG    GIRL.       233 

And  on  its  bright  brief  journey,  gathered  up 

Such  treasures  of  affection  ?     She  was  lov'd 

Only  as  idols  are.     She  was  the  pride 

Of  her  familiar  sphere — the  daily  joy 

Of  all  who  on  her  gracefulness  might  gaze, 

And  in  the  light  and  music  of  her  way, 

Have  a  companion's  portion.     Who  could  feel 

While  looking  upon  beauty  such  as  hers, 

That  it  would  ever  perish  !     It  is  like 

The  melting  of  a  star  into  the  sky 

While  you  are  gazing  on  it,  or  a  dream 

In  its  mosfravishing  sweetness  rudely  broken, 


234 


ANDRE'S  REQUEST  TO  WASHINGTON. 


IT  is  not  the  fear  of  death 

That  damps  my  brow 
It  is  not  for  another  breath 

I  ask  thee  now  ; 
I  can  die  with  a  lip  unstirr'd 

And  a  quiet  heart — 
Let  but  this  prayer  be  heard 

Ere  I  depart. 

I  can  give  up  my  mother's  look- 

My  sister's  kiss ; 
I  can  think  of  love — yet  brook 

A  death  like  this  ! 
I  can  give  up  the  young  fame 


ANDRE'S    REQUEST.  235 

I  burn'd  to  win — 
All — but  the  spotless  name 
I  glory  in. 

Thine  is  the  power  to  give, 

Thine  to  deny, 
Joy  for  the  hour  I  live — 

Calmness  to  die. 
By  all  the  brave  should  cherish, 

By  my  dying  breath, 
I  ask  that  I  may  perish 

By  a  soldier's  death  ! 


236 


SONNET— WINTER. 

THE  frozen  ground  looks  gray.    'Twill  shut  the  snow 

Out  from  its  bosom,  and  the  flakes  will  fall 
Softly,  and  lie  upon  it.     The  hushed  flow 

Of  the  ice-covered  waters,  and  the  call 
Of  the  cold  driver  to  his  oxen  slow, 

And  the  complaining  of  the  gust,  are  all 
That  I  can  hear  of  music — would  that  I 
With  the  green  summer  like  a  leaf  might  die! 
So  will  a  man  grow  gray,  and  on  his  head 

The  snow  of  years  lie  visibly,  and  so 
Will  come  a  frost  when  his  green  years  have  fled 

And  his  chilled  pulses  sluggishly  will  flow, 
And  his  deep  voice  be  shaken — would  that  I 
In  the  green  summer  of  my  youth  might  die  ! 


237 


SONNET. 


STORM  had  been  on  the  hills.     The  day  had  worn 

As  if  a  sleep  upon  the  hours  had  crept ; 
And  the  dark  clouds  that  gather'd  at  the  morn 

In  dull,  impenetrable  masses  slept, 
And  the  wet  leaves  hung  droopingly,  and  all 
Was  like  the  mournful  aspect  of  a  pall. 

Suddenly  on  the  horizon's  edge  a  blue 
And  delicate  line,  as  of  a  pencil,  lay, 

And  as  it  wider  and  intenser  grew, 
The  darkness  removed  silently  away, 

And,  with  the  splendor  of  a  God,  broke  through 
The  perfect  glory  of  departing  day — 
So,  when  his  stormy  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
Will  light  upon  the  dying  Christian  pour. 


238 


SONNET. 


BEAUTIFUL  robin  !   with  thy  feathers  red 

Contrasting  sweetly  with  the  soft  green  tree, 
Making  thy  little  flights  as  thou  art  led 

By  things  that  tempt  a  simple  one  like  thee — 
I  would  that  thou  couldst  warble  me  to  tears 
As  lightly  as  the  birds  of  other  years  ! 

Idly  to  lie  beneath  an  April  sun, 
Pressing  the  perfume  from  the  tender  grass ; 

To  watch  a  joyous  rivulet  leap  on 
With  the  clear  tinkle  of  a  music  glass, 
And  as  I  saw  the  early  robin  pass, 

To  hear  him  thro'  his  little  compass  run — 
Hath  been  a  joy  that  I  shall  no  more  know 
Before  I  to  my  better  portion  go. 


239 


THE  TABLE  OF  EMERALD. 


"Deep,  it  is  said,  under  yonder  pyramid,  has  for  ages  lain 
concealed  the  Table  of  Emerald,  on  which  the  thrice-great 
Hermes  engraved  before  the  flood  the  secret  of  alchemy  that 
gives  gold  at  will.*' 

MOORE'S  EPICUREAN. 


THAT  Emerald  vast  of  the  Pyramid — 

Were  I  where  it  is  laid, 
I  would  ask  no  king  for  his  weary  crown, 

As  its  mystic  words  were  said. 
The  pomp  of  wealth,  the  show  of  power, 

In  vain  for  me  would  shine, 
And  nought  that  brings  the  mind  a  care, 

Would  win  bright  gold  of  mine. 


240  EARLY     POEMS. 

Would  I  feast  all  day — revel  all  night — 

Laugh  with  a  secret  sadness  ? 
Would  I  sleep  away  the  breezy  morn, 

And  wake  to  the  goblet's  madness  ? 
Would  I  spend  no  time  and  no  golden  ore 

For  the  wisdom  that  sages  knew  ? 
Would  I  run  to  waste  with  a  human  mind 

To  its  holy  trust  untrue? 

Oh  !  knew  I  the  depth  of  that  emerald  spell, 

And  had  I  the  gold  it  brings, 
I  would  never  load  with  a  mocking  joy 

My  spirit's  mounting  wings. 
I  would  bind  no  wreath  to  my  brow  to  day 

That  would  leave  a  stain  to-morrow, 
Nor  drink  a  draught  of  joy  to-night, 

That  would  change  with  morn  to  sorrow. 

But,  oh,  I  would  burst  this  chain  of  care, 

And  be  spirit  and  fancy-free  ; 
My  mind  should  range  where  it  longs  to  go 

And  the  limitless  wind  outflee. 
I  would  place  my  foot  on  my  heaps  of  ore 


THE    TABLE    OF    EMERALD.  24l 

To  mount  to  "Wisdom's  throne, 
And  buy,  with  the  wealth  of  an  Indian  mine, 
To  be  left,  of  care,  alone  ! 

Ambition !  my  lip  would  laugh  to  scorn 

Thy  robe  and  thy  gleaming  sword  ! 
I  would  follow  sooner  a  woman's  eye, 

Or  a  child's  imperfect  word  ; 
But  come  with  the  glory  of  human  thought, 

And  the  light  of  the  scholar's  brow, 
And  my  heart  shall  be  taught  forgetfulness, 

And  alone  at  thine  altar  bow. 

There  was  one  mild  eye — there  was  one  deep  tone — 

They  were  dear  to  this  heart  of  mine  ! 
Dearer  to  me  was  that  mild  blue  eye 

Than  the  lamp  on  wisdom's  shrine. 
My  soul  brought  up  from  its  deepest  cell 

The  sum  of  its  earthly  love  ; 
But  it  could  not  buy  her  wing  from  Heaven, 

And  she  flew  to  her  rest  above. 


That  first  deep  love  I  have  taken  back 
21 


242  EARLY    POEMS. 

In  my  rayless  breast  to  hide ; 
With  the  tear  it  brought  for  a  burning  seal 

'Twill  there  forever  bide. 
I  may  stretch  on  now  to  another  goal, 

I  may  feed  my  thoughts  of  flame — 
The  tie  is  broken  that  kept  me  back, 

And  my  mind  speeds  on — for  fame  ! 

But,  alas  !  I  am  dreaming  as  if  I  knew 

The  spell  of  the  tablet  green  ! 
I  forget  how  like  to  a  broken  reed 

Is  the  hope  on  which  I  lean» 
There  is  nothing  true  of  my  idle  dream 

But  the  wreck  of  my  early  love, 

my  mind  is  coin'd  for  my  daily  bread, 

And  how  can  it  soar  above  ? 


THE  END. 


Ann  Street,  June,  1837. 

MESSRS.  SAUNDERS  AND  OTLEY, 

HATE   NOW   READY    THE    FOLLOWING 

IMPORTANT    NEW  WORKS. 

i. 

Mrs.  Sutler's  JVeio  Work. 
THE    STAR    OF    SEVILLE, 

A  DRAMA  IN  5  ACTS, 
BY     MRS.      PIERCE     BUTLER, 

•      II. 

Miss  Martineatfs  New  Work. 
SOCIETY   IN   AMERICA, 

BY     HARRIET     MARTINEAU. 
III. 

The  Lafayette  Papers. 
MEMOIRS,  CORRESPONDENCE  AND  OTHER 

MANUSCRIPTS  OF 
GENERAL    LAFAYETTE, 

Edited  by  his  Family, 

This  American  Edition  will  include  a  series  of  Letters  relating  to  the 
Revolutionary  War,  not  inserted  in  the  London  and  Paris  editions. 


IV. 

Mrs.  Jameson's  Illustrated   Work. 
CHARACTERISTICS   OF  WOMEN: 

MORAL,  POETICAL  AND  HISTORICAL. 

BY     MRS.     JAMESON. 
Illustrated  by  a  series  of  her  own  Vignette  Etchings. 

V. 

Mrs.  Shelley's  New  Work. 
FALKNER  — A    NOVEL. 

BY       MRS.        SHELLEY. 
Authoress  of  "  Frankenstein,"  &c. 

VI. 

Mr.  Grant's  New  Work. 
THE    GREAT    METROPOLIS. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF 

"  Random  Recollections  of  the  Lords  and  Commons"  fyc. 
Fourth  Edition. 

VJI. 

Mr.  Bulwer's  Nciv  Drama: 

THE  DUCHESS  DE  LA  VALLIER  E 

A  Play  in  Five  Acts. 
Second  Edition. 

VIIT. 

Mr.  Willis's  JVew  Work. 

INKLINGS    OF    ADVENTURE. 

BY     N.      P.      WILLIS,      ESQ. 
Third  Edition. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 

Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


— , _ 


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